


Death and the Bear King

by TungstenCat



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love under shadows, Romance, Violence in Later Chapters, we have reached the far shores of rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TungstenCat/pseuds/TungstenCat
Summary: Night after night, Beowulf watched as death incarnate stalked the halls of Chaldea. A powerful witch queen, fierce and beautiful in her splendor, and god why wouldn’t she fight him already? Then he gets his wish, and nothing will be the same again.
Relationships: Ereshkigal | Lancer/Beowulf | Berserker
Comments: 27
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exstarsis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exstarsis/gifts).



Beowulf's nose crinkled as he watched the monster fuss over wine flasks.

"Stainless steel _sounds_ fancy, Urtur," she told the blue flame in the cage on the counter as she turned a flask over in her hands. "But is it good enough for Master?"

The flame flickered purple around the edges, then resumed its swirl inside the golden bars. It might have been pretty, if Beowulf didn't know it was a human soul. Ereshkigal smiled at it, as if speaking to a pet instead of a trapped victim. As if the black crown of death didn't gleam from her golden hair. His grip tightened on the cask in his hands.

"To think that Gilgamesh could give us all the gold vases we need," sighed the monster in the stolen voice of a maiden, sweet and bright. "If Ishtar would just let me ask him! But no, she won't hear of it."

She haughtily tilted up her chin and flipped her hair in imitation of her sister.

"' _We're two sides of the same deity, so you asking that damn goldie for a favour is like if_ I _asked him! Absolutely not!'_ Ahh, she makes things so difficult…" Her voice lowered as she leaned towards the cage. "But between you and me, Urtur— it made me a little happy, too."

Beowulf scowled as Ereshkigal returned to polishing the flasks, nevermind that the metal already gleamed. So caught up in her task and her chatter that she still hadn't noticed the Berserker, even though he had been standing in the makeshift brewery for some time. To check on his ale, but also to keep an eye on her.

 _Who ever heard of a monster making wine_? He snorted as he carefully poured his fermented brew into the finishing keg. Because a monster was exactly what Ereshkigal was, however shiny the blonde locks that shrouded her solemn face. However graceful her fingers as they picked up another bottle, however elegant the black dress and burgundy cloak. She couldn't fool Beowulf. He'd killed too many beasts wearing fair skins to look only with his eyes.

A deep breath to draw in her aura, and he could smell bones picked clean, and the salt of tears long since dried out. The dark scent of death that clung to the Queen of Kur, the terrible goddess that ruled the underworld with an iron fist. A witch hiding underneath that beautiful mask.

"There, that should do it for the flasks. And next… oh yes, the barrels."

 _Now if only she'd act the damn part!_ But instead she clung to her facade, checking the drums for leaks and damage like an honest woman. If he forgot the smell in his nostrils, he could have almost believed himself back home in his mother's brewing hall.

"Everything looks fine," smiled Ereshkigal after a moment, letting her shoulders relax. Then they stiffened again. "But what if Ibaraki muscles her way in? An oni could drink the whole batch in minutes. No, no, calm down Er—" she coughed, then glanced at the flame. "I mean, Urtur. Trust in the might of your queen. My wards are impenetrable."

Heat prickled at the nape of Beowulf's neck, and surely that was irritation at this woman's stubborn refusal to live up to her role. _Wards? She should be threatening to flay that oni alive!_ Admittedly, there was a promise of vengeful wrath in the corner of the blonde's mouth, but it was spoiled by the reassuring pat she gave the top of the cage.

It was… _frustrating_ , that's what it was. It had been frustrating Beowulf since he first set foot in the old observatory, repurposed as a brewery at Ishtar's insistence now that Chaldea tracked spirits instead of stars.

He grunted low in his throat as he pressed in the bung to close the keg. He'd only meant to play around a bit with the hops, see if he could somehow recapture the taste of his old home. But then he'd seen Ereshkigal, really _seen_ her as she tinkered among the dried herbs, and suddenly ale didn't seem anywhere near as important. Not when there was a witch lurking among the vats.

A powerful witch queen, fierce and beautiful in her splendor, and _god_ why wouldn't she fight him already?

That battle would surely set his blood pumping again, scratch the itch that had been needling him for _weeks_. The one that left him restless and uncomfortable in his own skin no matter how many times he sparred with Achilles or threw down with Tamamo Cat, that made everything taste like a shank of meat chewed thin. That compelled him to come here and glower at her, the only thing that made it better.

The instinct of a monster slayer to fight a prize beast, that's what it had to be. Once they locked blades, he would finally feel satisfied.

 _Now if only she felt it too_. But again, she frustrated him. No matter how many times he waylaid her in the corridors, how many challenges and provocations he threw at her feet, she only spurned him.

" _The Queen of the Netherworld has no time to spare for you," she told him coldly, barely glancing at him. "Not when I have important tasks to handle. Go seek your bloodsports elsewhere."_

A clink of metal pulled Beowulf from his thoughts. Instinctively he moved behind the ale barrels, holding his breath as witch and soul swept by towards the stairs leading up to the observation platform. She gave no sign she had seen him, and he had good reason to think she hadn't. Despite his bulk, he had a long tradition of ambushing prey.

Although that didn't answer why the hell he was hiding. _Wasn't I just thinking I wanted to fight her_? Then again, he wouldn't get the battle he craved if she spotted him. She'd only glare at him before sweeping away, leaving him all alone in the brewery. And Beowulf didn't want that to happen, not yet.

"Look, Urtur! All the stars are out tonight," echoed Ereshkigal's voice from above.

Beowulf edged a little bit away from the barrels and glanced up, pausing to take in the sight of the witch casually swinging her legs over the platform edge before looking up at the glass dome. It was a rare clear night, the black sky studded with so many silvery dots he might reach up and draw away a handful.

Maybe Ereshkigal was thinking the same, humming as she stared up into the night. The notes fell too shyly to be strictly beautiful, but it was a soothing sound. Beowulf grimaced as he watched the soul slowly spin in the cage on her lap. It had to be a trick of some sort. All the more dangerous because he didn't understand it.

"That's the one Master calls Sirius, isn't it?" Ereskigal mused, as much to herself as to the blue fire. "Why the Dog Star, do you think? Our name — Tir, the brilliant arrow— fits it far better."

The flame flared a little bit brighter for a moment, and Beowulf's frown deepened.

"I'm glad you agree!" laughed the witch. "And look, there's Rimanni—I wonder what they call it now. I bet Master would know."

 _Polaris._ Beowulf knew, even if that stupid soul of hers didn't, and it was all he could do to wrestle the name back down his throat instead of calling it out.

" _No_ , does all her stargazing with Mash, anyway. And that's how it should be." Ereshkigal's delicate shoulders slumped, her next words coming as a low murmur. "Even if I'd walked beside her from the beginning, there's no reason to think she'd… not that I'd want her to!" A small flush touched the high, pale cheeks. "A goddess looks on mortals with pity, nothing more."

Her gaze dropped down to her lap, where slender hands were twisting in her cloak. A spell, it had to be given the way Beowulf's chest hurt with the motion.

A memory drifted to him of clacking mugs and boisterous laughter, men celebrating their return from the storm, and a smile on his face that felt more like a rictus. He knew about feeling lonely even when surrounded by friends, feeling ungrateful while he ached for something, _someone_ more—

 _Stop it_. He bit down on his tongue to the blood. The familiar iron steadied him. _Monsters don't_ get _lonely_ , _and they certainly don't pine like maidens by the riverbank. It's a ruse, nothing more._

Outrage boiled in his throat, that she would try to play him like this. Tug on his rusted heartstrings with her melancholy, as she lured his eyes with the power he could sense in every graceful step, lithe muscles flowing under ivory skin...

He growled low in his throat to shake away the spell before it could cloud him again. He'd had _enough_ , and he was going to tell her so. Balling his hands into fists, he stalked out from under the shadow of the barrels—

— only for a hand to clap him firmly on the back.

"Yo, Beowulf. Figured I might find you here."

He spun around to find Cu Chulainn grinning at him, a gleam in his bestial eyes.

"Yeah," he grunted automatically before jerking towards his target, his blood still running hot. "But I'm busy. Go away."

The Lancer's hand didn't lift from his shoulder, damn him, only tightened to hold him in place. "Too busy to share a drink? Tch, what happened to hospitality?" A hint of fang flashed from his smile. "You've been coming up here for weeks now. There's gotta be something good in those kegs by now."

While Beowulf generally got along with Cu as men who both preferred speaking with their fists, there were times when the Celt's bullheadedness was infuriating. "Later!" he snarled. "I've got—"

A soft _whoosh_ of displaced air interrupted him when Ereshkigal slipped from her perch on the platform. Her cloak billowed as she landed on the floor with a cat's grace. He thought he saw more red in her face— _anger_ , that had to be anger—before her chin lifted.

"There really are too many jackals roaming Chaldea's halls," she said icily, striding away without sparing them a glance. "A pity Master is too tolerant to cull their ranks."

Beowulf's fingers twitched in his fist, a vise clamping tightly around his heart as golden hair fluttered away from him. _Don't leave. I'm not done with you_. He moved to follow her through the doors when once again Cu held him back, with more force this time.

He wrenched the hand from his shoulder with force that would have shattered a human's bones. "You, hound," he rumbled, "You're really pissing me off."

The Lancer only shrugged in the face of his snarl. "Give it up. She ain't gonna fight you. Hasn't she made that clear by now?"

Resentment coursed through Beowulf's veins, flaring into more anger. "Not gonna give her a choice," he said, nails digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood from his calloused skin.

"Hey. If you're spoiling for a fight, how about we go a few rounds?" A flash of red light called the cursed spear to Cu's hand, as sharp as his grin. "Been a while since we clashed blades, yeah?"

That was a good invitation, one Beowulf should have been glad to take. The Son of Light was a ferocious opponent, and the brawl would be streaked with the red adrenaline and bone-crushing blows that made him feel alive.

But the vision fell flat. He wanted a different pair of red eyes on him.

"Not interested," he grumbled, turning his back on the Celt. For a few heartbeats, he seriously considered chasing after the witch queen, see if he could still force a fight—but no, the hound was right. She'd just reject him, like always. So instead he yanked down the juniper branches he'd hung up to dry, slapping them down on the counter for later.

"Yeah?" said Cu, "Cause you're looking a bit hot under the collar there. Not literally, 'course, since you never wear a shirt." The Lancer gave him a sly look. "Not a bad tactic, though I don't think it's working on her."

Beowulf ground his teeth as he pulled down some henbane. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, and there's no ale here for you. Get lost."

So that the Berserker could finish up here, and… go back to his quarters, or the cafeteria or something. Somewhere the itch would follow him like a mad dog, worrying at him.

To his irritation, the Lancer didn't leave. He just slouched up against a vat, his eyes lazily trailing Beowulf as he worked. Normally the Berserker didn't mind being appraised—you didn't lead men without getting used to it—but something in the man's smirk prickled nastily up his spine.

He was strongly considering giving Cu the slugging he was asking for when the man heaved a theatrical sigh. "If you want to get closer to Ereshkigal, you gotta change things up."

Beowulf's hand paused on the counter. He hesitated, then gave in to curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe stop seeing her as a monster," shrugged the hound.

The Berserker scratched the stubble under his chin. "But she _is_ a monster."

Cu looked unimpressed. "So's the homunculus with the killer swing. And the vampires, and the dragon girls, and the big slavering wolf. You don't spend hours worrying about _them_."

"That's different," said Beowulf, mouth pressed in a stubborn line.

"And why do you think that is?"

 _For many reasons_ , and they jostled uncomfortably in his mouth. So he reached for the easiest one, especially since it was also true. "She's far more dangerous."

"Uh huh," drawled Cu, folding his hands behind his head. "Nothing to do with those legs."

Beowulf frowned. "What about her legs?"

Because he'd rarely glanced down from her face, too busy staring into crimson eyes and wishing they'd stay on him for once, instead of looking coldly away.

"You… ouch. You really have it bad." Cu gave a low whistle as he pushed away from the vat. "Well, you'll figure it out. Good luck, man."

With a casual wave of his hand, the Lancer disappeared into the hallways, leaving Beowulf holding nothing but a keg of unfinished ale and simmering anger.

It was intolerable. The more Beowulf came to the brewery, the more the witch queen ignored him. The more he picked fights with her, the briefer and stonier the glances she shot his way. All while the pit in his stomach was growing, heavy with questions he couldn't seem to put a name to.

 _No more_. Beowulf was a patient hunter, but he also knew when his prey needed a little push. If words couldn't draw her out from her facade of gardens and china cups, he'd find a way to cut deeper.

A feral grin spread across Beowulf's face and he cracked his knuckles. Master wouldn't approve. But then, a lot went on in Chaldea that the young magus didn't need to know about.

* * *

_The lamia screeched in agony as Beowulf's sword pierced her writhing tail. With a grunt, he levered the blade to tear through scales and the soft flesh underneath, cleaving the beast in two. Blood seeped into the mud of the swamp, swallowed up by the hungry earth._

_Mud and miasma and the smell of rot, already sinking into his prize. He needed to hurry, if he wanted to keep it in good condition._

" _Looks like that's the last of them," sighed Ritsuka from his left, where Mash's arms were supporting the magus through her exhaustion. "Unless something else wants to jump us while we're setting up the beacon. Any takers?" She glared at the surrounding forest, as if expecting more werewolves to jump out any second. "Come on. Just… get it over with."_

" _I think that's really it, Senpai," said the Shielder gently. "Here, why don't you lean on me while Robin handles the beacon?"_

" _I don't… well, maybe just for a bit. While I catch my breath."_

_A smile briefly stole across Beowulf's face before he shook it away. Eye on the prize. Maneuvering so his broad back blocked his companions' view, he pulled a serrated knife from his belt and got to work._

" _Hey, Beowulf? What are you doing?" asked his Master, as usual too full of curiosity. Lucky for him that she valued Mash more, enough to stay pressed into her side instead of stumbling over to see for herself._

" _Just collecting a sample for Paracelsus."_

_The lie burnt his lips, even more when Ritsuka easily nodded and turned her attention to Robin Hood and the beacon. But it faded under savage joy as, with a sharp tug, his prize came loose and stained his hands a sticky crimson. Beowulf grinned and packed it away into a bag before returning to his companions._

* * *

A mere two hours later found Beowulf in Chaldea's maze of corridors, pushed up against the wall and listening to footsteps approaching from around the bend. Familiar footsteps, after all the occasions he'd hunted them. They echoed more sharply than usual, the heel pressing audibly into the tile with each clack, and he knew their owner was in a bad mood.

 _Good_ , growled the monsterslayer inside him, pushing aside the twinge in his heart. _That should make it easy to rile her up_.

Still he hesitated, his fingers tightening on the bag. But if she just brushed by him again, left the ache gnawing deep in his belly… the thought twisted inside him and flared red.

Blood sang in his ears, so fiercely he barely registered the feel of lank hair against his fingers when he shoved his hand into the bag. Propelled him around the corner, where he met the surprised arch of Ereshkigal's fair eyebrows with his most insolent smirk. The same smirk he had given another witch, a long time ago.

"Hey, Queen of Death," he called, pulling out the lamia's head and holding it aloft. "I brought ya an offering."

Her jaw dropped as she stared at the grotesque face swinging by the hair. Then to the severed neck, and the droplets falling to splatter against the floor. Red staining the pristine white, as red as her eyes.

"Suits ya perfect!" he said, even as his mouth burned hot. He threw the head at her.

Ereshkigal seemed to catch it almost by instinct. She shifted her grip to gently tilt it up. As she looked into its empty eyes, the crimson of her own blazed gold.

Beowulf watched with bated breath as the witch carefully placed the head to one side of the corridor. For a terrible moment he thought he'd failed again. But when Ereshkigal faced him, her slender frame shaking with fury, he knew. She would fight him now, and kill him if she could.

His guilt melted in the lethal gold of those terrible eyes. She might be murderously angry, but she was looking at him. Really _looking_ at him.

"You dare," she hissed in a voice that dripped black water. "After all my forbearance, all my mercy. You _dare_ desecrate the dead in front of me, their protector."

Bitter cold spread from her in dark waves. It froze the ground under Beowulf's feet and sent his breath curling in the air. Fear shivered down his spine, and with it a surge of adrenaline coursing through his muscles.

"Yeah, that's it," said Beowulf, lips curling back in a wolf's grin. "Now you finally look like you should, witch queen."

"Very well," snarled Ereshkigal. A massive spear of burnished steel and gold appeared in her hand. "Since you want it so badly, I'll take you to the Underworld!"

 _Finally!_ Beowulf's grin went mad as he summoned his swords. Finally he would fight the monster and all the shades he could smell on her. That would banish the itch that plagued him, even if she ripped him to shreds in the process.

"We'll see about that," he rumbled. "Goddess or not, I bet you still bleed."

A sudden doubt assailed him.

_(no, that's wrong, that's not what I want to see—)_

He charged anyway. No quarter, no mercy. Not with monsters.

Ereshkigal pulled a cage from under her cloak. " _Ganzer,_ hosts of the dead!Heed my call!"

A flare of blue fire, then the ground between them exploded into jaws of living darkness. They threw themselves at the Berserker, snapping with vicious fury. He slashed through what he could, then grunted as the rest sunk their frozen fangs into him. It _hurt_ , but he forced himself through it. He would take that pain and more to reach her.

"Got you!" Beowulf roared as he burst from the shadows. His swords came crashing down on her.

Hastily Ereshkigal parried, steel clanging on steel. The Berserker ground his blades down on the spear's shaft, leveraging brute force to rip it from her hands. Her heel screeched on tile as she braced under the assault. But she did not falter.

 _Strong as stone_ , _just like a monster should be._ It sent a thrill of admiration through him. He leaned down, bringing their faces closer as their weapons screeched with strain.

"That won't be enough!" she grit out, glaring at him.

"Good!" He pushed down with all his strength. "Make me feel it. Make—argh!"

Pain flared in his calf, icy fire from the spectral teeth clamped on it. Roughly he kicked the shadow off, but it had already given Ereshkigal her opening. A plated heel planted itself in his stomach with enough force to stagger him back. She followed up with a vicious thrust of her spear. He knocked it away on the blade edge, then leaped to avoid the shadows lunging at his feet.

He twisted around again. Blade clashed on blade in furious strikes, sparks flying from the force of the blows. The frenzy was taking hold, thrumming red in Beowulf's brain. His attacks grew more reckless. Soon they were weaving in and out of each other's guards, weapons tasting blood along with steel.

Beowulf was enjoying himself immensely.

"You ain't half bad," he rasped through ragged breaths. A flicker of pride shone in the fierce gold of her eyes.

 _(yeah, that's more like it_ )

Then she remembered what he'd done. The flicker died, replaced by ice as she rushed him again.

Beowulf parried the spear and attacked her open flank. He was faster than her, if only by a hair's breath. He could win this.

The snapping of phantom jaws forced him to disengage. By the time he'd slashed them apart, magenta light flared behind him.

"Enough!" yelled Ereshkigal.

He whirled around just in time to see the barrage of iron shafts hurtling towards him, each tipped with searing light. Too late to evade. He could only brace for impact.

Agony tore through him as three lances caught him in the chest and shoulders. They threw him back with crushing force and pinned him to the wall. Dangling like a worm on a hook, coughing up blood.

A short laugh bubbled in his throat. It tasted of iron. _Hell. Now I know how Grendel felt_.

The nerves in his arms screamed as he reached for the shaft. Beowulf swallowed the pain—he had a lifetime of practice—and grabbed on. His feet were just scraping against the wall for leverage when he heard a rustle of cloth.

His head snapped up. Ereshkigal grinned in vicious satisfaction as she approached, shadows curling over her like a second mantle. The air reeked of death and black steel.

 _(The true Queen of Kur. Just like you wanted_ )

The sudden stab in his chest felt nothing like the pain burning in his wounds. But no time to dwell on it. She was directly in front of him now, lips curled in a cruel smile.

"Heh… guess I underestimated you," he rasped. The spears really _hurt_. "Take your vengeance then."

He hissed and jerked on the metal embedded in him when icy fingers touched his chest. They traced slow circles on his blood-splattered flesh. Sharp nails pressed down on his skin.

"I'll give you a new scar," she said, cold and forbidding. "Something to regret your insolence by."

An insane thought drifted through Beowulf's mind as he grinned at her with bloodstained teeth. _Maybe a mark from her wouldn't be so bad._

Then the hand fell away. The menacing aura faded. Ereshkigal heaved a deep sigh as she turned away from him, pulling her cloak around herself.

"No. I don't have to," she whispered to herself, hands clutching at her forearms. "This is Chaldea, and things are different here. I don't…"

Beowulf stared at her from the wall. The pain still burned, but it momentarily faded before his confusion. Anger too, and a lighter feeling he couldn't put a name to. He worked his lips soundlessly for a few moments before giving up.

It still caught Ereshkigal's attention. She huffed and glared at him. "I'm sparing you for Master's sake, one last time," she said. "The spears will disappear in a few minutes. Until then, hang there and repent."

She stalked away, pausing only to collect the lamia's head.

Beowulf sighed as he let himself hang limp. He'd gotten the fight he wanted and _fuck_ it had been glorious. Better than he'd dared imagine. But the itch was still there, worse than ever. Already he wanted her to come back.

More burning in his chest, more blood dripping. He ignored it and stared at the smeared tiles below. What was Ereshkigal anyway? The Queen of Death, yeah. But that meant a monster, and she didn't act like a monster should. Not when she worried over their Master. Not when she carefully tucked souls away into those damn cages of hers. And definitely not when she drew away, instead of cutting him up a bit to flaunt her victory. Shuten-douji wouldn't have hesitated.

Yet the iron still piercing his body made it clear. She wasn't soft, either.

 _A puzzle, then._ Despite what people thought of him, Beowulf loved a good puzzle. And she _did_ have nice legs.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been hanging there, lost in thought, before a sharp intake of breath snapped his head around.

"Beowulf!" Okita Souji glanced over his injuries and winced. "What on earth happened to you? Here, I'll help you down—"

"Nah." He waved a bloody hand. The chain clinked below his cuff. "Thanks, but I want to stay here a little longer." When she stared at him in astonishment, he offered her a small smile. "I got a lot to think about."

"Like _that_?" she said incredulously, pointing at the spears still pinning him to the wall.

"Yeah," rasped Beowulf. "Pain muddles things, but sometimes it makes them clearer too."

Okita frowned at him for a long moment, before shrugging. "Suit yourself then, I guess."

"Yeah," he muttered as she walked away. "For once... I think I will."


	2. Chapter 2

"Here you are. One cream and three sugars."

Ereshkigal smiled as the red archer placed the tray down on the little round table. "Thank you, EMIYA. This is exactly what I needed."

Far too sweet for a palette that was still struggling to adapt to bold flavours after centuries tasting little but dust, but it would be graceless to complain. And perhaps the excess sugar would help drown out the hint of cruel iron lodged in her throat. Even the bright colours and fragrances of the artificial gardens' flowers hadn't been enough to wipe away the specter of what she'd nearly done in the hallway.

_Curse that Beowulf_. For a terrible moment, old instincts had clawed through the cage Ereshkigal built around them. She'd wanted to hurt him, chain him to the black pillar and shred the skin from his living bones. Everything she swore to never show in front of Ritsuka, lest she lose the magus' warm smile. To think that infuriating man had so easily lured it out of her, after all her hard work and denial—

"You say that, but you still haven't touched it," interrupted the familiar drawl. "Tch, and after you had me slave in the kitchen making it for you."

"Ahh, sorry!" said Ereshkigal. She took a hurried sip and forced herself to smile despite the saccharine shock on her tongue. "It's really good, as always. I was just thinking."

She glanced up to find EMIYA holding his own cup and watching her with furrowed brow. Perhaps he sensed the foul mood under her pleasant mask, and this was his way of pulling her from it?

But no, it was the same subtle dissatisfaction he always wore on these occasions. Ereshkigal knew he was waiting for her to sass him, just like she knew why he always added too much sugar to her tea.

Because that was what Rin Tohsaka liked. And no matter how much time they spent together, EMIYA could never talk to her without seeing her vessel.

Not that a goddess cared about the foolish delusions of mortals! But as much as she repeated that truth to herself, staring down into the steaming liquid, it didn't stop the subtle needling in her chest.

"Amaryllis, hmm?" said EMIYA after a time, glancing at a cluster of star-shaped blossoms. "Rather ambitious of you. They're notoriously difficult to grow."

"They're doing well, though," said Ereshkigal, trying to keep the sigh from her voice.

Of course the amaryllis were in brilliant bloom. They were Ishtar's favourites, and how could plants beloved of a fertility goddess do other than shine in her honour? Not that Ereshkigal's sunflowers were doing _too_ badly—at least the leaves were still green, even if they showed no inclination towards flowering—but the contrast in what was supposed to be a joint gardening project felt a little painful.

"They are," conceded EMIYA, with a touch of warmth to his smirk. "But then, you're far too stubborn to accept anything less."

_You mean your Rin was_. Ereshkigal traced the saucer's edge with her finger, suppressing another sigh as they exchanged more pleasantries. It was impossible not to notice the slight twitch in his smile every time she called him by name instead of addressing him by his class.

As heart-warming as it was that the red archer saw his old friend in her—likely more than a friend, from the way his eyes roamed over her face when he thought she wasn't looking—she couldn't be that for him.

Yes, she was trying to change, to become the proud and warm goddess that Master believed in, but she was still Ereshkigal of Kur. Divine authority, especially one steeped in gloom and cruelty ( _as a certain man had so recently proven, damn him_ ), left only so much room for the brightness of a living woman. The memories EMIYA held so fondly were only distant fragments for Ereshkigal, plucked erratically from her vessel's mind. Seeing them reflected so fondly in his eyes made her gut twist.

Puffing out her cheeks, she took another sip of too-sweet tea and turned to him again. But he was lost in his own thoughts, eyes half-closed and a nostalgic smile on his lips. Despite her lingering unease, Ereshkigal found herself smiling as well.

She had warmth and light and companionship here at Chaldea. EMIYA in all his complications; Ishtar, even if her sibling's selfish whims sometimes frayed the thread of their slow reconciliation; Hassan and Marie and the other friends she'd made. Even Urtur, quietly pulsing under her cloak, who she tried to confide in despite her worries about what it might mean for her dignity as queen and goddess.

No, Ereshkigal had no reason to feel lonely. It would be greedy to want more; shameful to dwell on the blushes that adorned Ritsuka and Mash's faces in their quieter moments, or the unassuming but affectionate way Robin held Martha's hand. She already had more than she could ever have imagined before, chained on the unforgiving stone of her throne.

But clearly she was Ishtar's sister after all, because she found herself wishing anyway.

The leaves overhanging the path rustled. Ereshkigal's gaze snapped around, hoping to see Master despite her self-recriminations. But instead of the troubled smile of a girl who bravely shouldered through violence, she found herself staring at the man who drank it in until he might burst. Shaggy blond hair and dull red eyes. Hulking frame covered in jagged scars.

_Beowulf_.

The delicate china of the cup handle snapped between her fingers.

_How dare he_? Nostrils flaring, she shifted her grip and took a deliberately slow drink from the cracked vessel. It didn't stop the sharp trill of anger. _How dare he approach me so casually, after his crime against me? And smiling, no less!_

Another huff of breath. _Master, think of Master_ , Ereshkigal repeated in a silent litany as the Berserker came to a stop beside the table. _And remember that attention is what this boor wants. It's beneath your dignity to grant it to him._

EMIYA had no such reservations, crossing his arms as he fixed the man with a steely frown.

"Did you lose your way?" he drawled, edged with a sarcasm he never used with Ereshkigal. "The boozing contest is over in the west break room."

"Nah. I'm right where I want to be," said Beowulf, pulling up a chair.

Ereshkigal glared at the man over her drink. But while he gave her a wry smile, he didn't seem at all discomfited by her hostility. Even had the _gall_ to relax in his seat before turning to EMIYA, ignoring the thunder in the other Servant's face.

"Wouldn't mind a cup, though," he rumbled.

The archer's fingers twitched, and there might have been a new bout of violence if Ereshkigal hadn't given a meaningful shake of her head. This cur was her business, and she would handle him.

Still EMIYA hesitated, his glance clearly asking if she was going to be okay. Ereshkigal felt a prickle of irritation as she waved him off. Another annoyance, if a well-meaning one. She wasn't the girl, and she wasn't made of glass. She was a mighty goddess, with all the powers of hell at her fingertips.

_Beowulf would know_. Her darkest self, the cruel queen of Kur unrestrained by humanity, wanted to smirk. She felt her mouth curl before she could stop herself.

But only the smallest flicker passed over the Berserker's brow as EMIYA carried the tray away, leaving the two alone in strained silence. Ereshkigal had to stop her fingers from tapping on the table as it stretched on. The urge only got worse when the expected challenge failed to materialize on his rough lips, only a small smile as his gaze wandered over the gardens.

_Ishtar would have told him off by now_ , she reflected. _Probably demanded a king's ransom in treasure as compensation, too_. Instead of scoffing, she found herself smiling. _That… might actually be fun to try_.

She was just warming to the idea when Beowulf spoke first. "You're damn strong," he said admiringly. "Been a long time since I had a fight like that."

Folding her arms, she shot him her blackest look. "That's all you came here to say? Perhaps I should have left you impaled a little longer, to drain out that insolence."

"Hah, prickly," he said, then made an appeasing gesture in response to her deepening frown. "Nah, that's not it. I stepped way over the line there, and I'm sorry."

Heavy knuckles rapped on the table.

"But words are cheap, and you deserve more. So I'm here to pay wergild."

"Wergild," she repeated, tasting the foreign word on her tongue. "Compensation, then."

_It seems we're on the same wavelength_ , she thought, a little of her ire dimming.

The man nodded. "Feel free to put it high. 'Cause even if I really shouldn't have done that, I can't fully regret it." He shook his head and grinned at her. "Not when it meant I got to see you like that."

A small shiver ran down her spine. A goddess never doubted her own power, but it was still nice to have it acknowledged— _no, Ereshkigal! Don't let the flowers and his smile lull you. Remember what he did._

"Is that why you disgraced yourself?" she snapped, intending the words to cut.

"Part of it, yeah." His grin turned a little sheepish. "Gotta admit it was pretty fun."

Impossible man, infuriating man. She shouldn't be surprised, savagery was written all over his face, but… "I almost ripped you to pieces!" she blurted. "You _enjoyed_ that?"

"Not that part!" His hand unconsciously brushed over his stomach. "Still hurts like a bitch. But… how can I put this?" He scratched his cheek. "I got to see you. All of you, I mean. And even at the end, when you turned cruel… it was for that lamia's sake, yeah? I get it."

_If you did, how could you have done such a thing?_ Anger glinted in her eyes. "You understand nothing."

"I… yeah. Maybe you're right," he said with an apologetic shrug, when she needed him to snap and growl.

Unhappily Ereshkigal settled back in her chair, hand tightening around her broken cup. This mortal seemed deadset on vexing her, first with his affronts and now with this sudden affability. When he'd seemed content to snarl and glare at her, it had been easy to dismiss him as another one of humanity's brutish heroes, drunk on fame and blood lust. Now, watching him hold out a massive finger to a jewel-bright dragonfly, and chuckling when it darted away… she wasn't so sure.

Again, Beowulf was first to break the silence. "Don't worry about the sunflowers," he said, nodding towards the part-grown stalks. "It's new ground for them too, yeah? Think of it as learning together."

Ereshkigal pursed her lips. "You've been watching me," she said, then internally winced. The man hadn't exactly made a secret of that, lurking in the corridors and scowling at her in the brewery. But she'd never noticed him here in the gardens.

"Yeah," grunted Beowulf, entirely unabashed. "I saw ya planting them. But even without that, I'd know." He grinned at her raised eyebrow. "'Cause they aren't just pretty, they're dead useful too. Seeds and oil and stuff. You can't quite let go of that, even here."

A bit of heat rose to her cheeks, entirely unbidden. She took a sip of lukewarm tea to hide it, even as she saw EMIYA returning with a refilled tray.

"I'm not Ishtar. I consider the practical, too." Her eyes sought out Beowulf's and locked them down. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. That's what rulers do for their people." The Berserker's jaw tightened when Ereshkigal thankfully accepted an intact cup from the archer, then relaxed when she turned back to him. "Think ahead when times are good, so there's enough when they aren't."

"Even when your heart pushes you somewhere else," Ereshkigal murmured, thinking of blue skies and storm feathers. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth and glared at the Berserker.

But he was watching the dragonflies again, following the flash of their wings as they skimmed over the artificial pond. "Yeah. Lucky we aren't here to rule. Just serve as Master's warriors." He nodded as EMIYA placed a cup in front of him. "Thanks. I'll get it next time."

"I'm sure you will," said the archer. They exchanged smiles full of teeth, but Ereshkigal was too absorbed in her own thoughts to pay it much mind.

She didn't know much about Beowulf. There were many faces in Chaldea, and it was easy to dismiss him as cut from the same crimson cloth as so many other warrior kings. He really was like them in many ways, stubborn and bloodthirsty and infuriatingly self-righteous. But the weariness in his shoulders made her think of the harder working Gilgamesh, while the harsh red of his eyes… she wondered what his northern lands had been like. Surely nothing as cold as Kur.

_Biting cold, stone cliffs and silver dust._ She leaned a little bit forward. "And… when times are never good? What do you propose then, bear king?"

"Then you hold on, best you can," said Beowulf. "And you do your best to break your people out of it. Even…" He paused and took a swallow of tea. The china looked absurdly fragile in his big callused hands. "... become a monster. If that's what they need."

A sharp rattle of cup on saucer drew them both to where EMIYA was staring into his drink, his mouth set in a grim line. Something about that expression pulled hard on Ereshkigal's heart, enough to sharpen her voice when she whirled back on Beowulf.

"I am the Queen of Kur. Everything I do is for my own sake."

"Some of it, maybe." The smile tucked in the corner of his mouth made her chest tighten. "And that's a good side of you, too. No shame in having fangs to go with your pelt, yeah?"

Huffing, she looked away from that smile, towards the safety of the garden. Her fingers tapped on the table. "You saw the sunflowers. And the wine."

"Yeah." A twist of nervousness in his voice.

"But you never touched them, even when you wanted to make me angry." She raised an eyebrow. "It would have been far easier than that awful butchery."

Beowulf wrinkled his nose. "It's different."

"Why?" cut in EMIYA.

The Berserker startled, as if he'd forgotten the other was there. His face closed up like a door slamming shut. "You figure it out." Rising from his seat, he turned to Ereshkigal. "That's all I had to say. Come collect whenever you're ready."

"... I'll think about it."

"Alright." He licked his lips. "Thanks for the tea. It's not for me, but I think I get the appeal."

He left. Ereshkigal frowned after him.

"That man lived a life steeped in violence," said EMIYA, already gathering up the used dishes. "He wears it more heavily than his chains."

"As expected of a hero," sighed the goddess. "Dragonslayers. Giantkillers. Great generals. These are the stories that humanity treasures."

_The stories that shape their subjects. Trap them_. The dragonflies buzzed.

"Hero can mean a lot of things." The archer bit his lip, a rare slip in his customary mask of cynicism. "A proud goddess doesn't need advice, of course."

"O-Of course. I'm glad you understand."

"So please indulge the ramblings of a fool."

"I wouldn't call you—", she began, but stopped at the twitch of the archer's mouth.

"That guy's loud and crude, and far too enamoured of strength." EMIYA's fingers absently skimmed over his breastplate, lingering over a spot. "But what's more dangerous is that he honestly believes in the greater good. That makes him the _worst_ kind of hero."

Ereshkigal blinked. "The lamia—"

"Exactly. He's the kind of man who won't hesitate to bloody his hands, if he thinks that's what will uncover a truth. Or save others." His fingers moved up to his neck. "A menace, whichever side of his sword you stand on."

"EMIYA…"

"Beyond that, he keeps terrible company. There's a saying about lying down with dogs, you know. Even a goddess might want to invest in some flea powder."

The sardonic smile didn't sit right on his face. It felt as stiff as the affected levity with which he rose and balanced the tray. Ereshkigal opened her mouth, hesitated. Their companionship rested in part on an unspoken agreement not to dig too deeply. Still, she had a lot of questions—

"Well, I said I wouldn't give advice. And you'll do as you please, as always."

—but the window had closed. EMIYA was walking away, retreating to his beloved kitchens. Chaldea could probably expect a five course meal that night, or even six depending on how badly his nerves had been plucked.

Ereshkigal fidgeted with her cloak as she turned the archer's words over in her head. Despite his mocking delivery, his concern seemed sincere. And for good reason. Beowulf had shown himself capable of shocking violence, and more than a little cruelty of his own. The vision of his grin as he held aloft the desecrated head stoked the anger still simmering low in her belly.

The easiest thing—the most natural thing, by far—would be to demand he keep his distance. Honour would compel him to stay away, and Ereshkigal could go back to her routine.

_Sitting in the sunlight she'd so longed for, surrounded by friends and laughter. But only until they walked away hand in hand, leaving her staring after them and wishing, always wishing…_

Sighing, she glanced at the half-grown sunflowers again. They faded easily among the bright blossoms of Ishtar's orchids and Marie's roses. But Beowulf had still noticed them.

A small thing, and he was hardly the only one. It shouldn't have mattered. But somehow, it did.

_Master sees the monster under my skin, and accepts it as a part of me. She doesn't shy away, and I lo—I'm grateful for it. But Beowulf…_ She chewed her bottom lip. _Beowulf likes it._

Enamoured of strength and fierceness, as EMIYA said. But then he should have sneered at the flowers, and called her weak for planting them. Instead, he smiled and said she was growing with them.

" _I got to see you. All of you, I mean."_

And that wasn't fair at all. Not when Ereshkigal knew so little about him.

She could always go to the records room and read his legend… but no, why should she? The man was right there to observe directly, and a goddess should surely trust in her own wisdom over secondhand accounts.

Yes. Watch and pass judgment. That felt very much like what a goddess would do. Pleased, she pulled out a familiar cage and set it on the table. "Your queen has decided, Urtur."

A small pulse of violet.

" _No_ , not about the amaryllis! Honestly, why is everyone like this?"

* * *

Beowulf had sprung too many ambuses in his life to be called strictly honourable. Still, he felt a little bad as they trudged through the forest and its remnants of battle. "Sure this is what you want? 'Cause you should know—"

"Be silent! Repentance isn't earned through words or trinkets, but through service." Ereshkigal's blonde hair shone through the morning mist as she resolutely picked her way over shattered trunks and scattered weapons. "Or were you lying about letting me decide the wergild?"

He slung the shovel back over his shoulder. "Since you insist, then."

It didn't feel much like repenting though. Not when he was getting pretty much what he wanted.

Sure, burying the fallen wasn't the most pleasant time he could imagine. His muscles ached from digging in hard soil, and his heart hurt from the weight of death. But that all bled away before the sight of Ereshkigal's pale face. Her solemn look as she knelt by each body and whispered protections with the same care she used with her flowers and vines. Seeing this side of her up close— scratch that, _sharing_ it with her…

_Worth it_.

"I _do_ insist." The goddess glanced over her shoulder at him. The stern expression of a queen, on a pretty maiden's face, sent a pleasant little shiver down his spine. "Since Master's lectures clearly don't work with you, I thought..."

Hastily Beowulf rubbed at his mouth to wipe the smile away. Too late, judging from the narrowing of Ereshkigal's eyes.

"W—what's with that look? Do you find something amusing?"

"Just admiring," he said. If she was going to get angry with him, it might as well be for the truth. "You're a hard worker, doing this for every singularity remnant."

The proud tilt of her chin didn't quite hide the colour in her cheeks. That flush of life should have felt at odds with the dark scent that clung to her. Instead, it reminded him that there was a person under the weight of her grim authority. A feeling and breathing one. He felt another puzzle piece slide into place.

"Someone has to make sure everything is fading as it should," she said after a pause. "Even confined by this vessel, my Authority lets me sense lingering ripples in the fabric of reality. The task is perfectly suited to me."

"But not just to you. And Master hates always imposing on the same Servant." He cocked his head to one side. "You volunteer for this, yeah? Every time. So you can put the dead to rest."

The colour in her face deepened to a rose pink. "W—what of it? I'm perfectly capable of doing both at once." Nervously she tugged on a lock of her hair. "And unlike certain other goddesses, I take care of my charges."

They picked their way around a boulder cracked neatly in two. He could think of a dozen Servants who might have been responsible for such a feat. Most of all the one in front of him, despite her slender frame. She might well have fought and killed the very people she was now taking care to bury.

"Your charges, huh… even though they tried to kill Master."

He said it without judgment or accusation. It still put a frown on her pretty face.

"Death does not play favourites," she said loftily.

"Yeah? But you came to Master when she called for you." He idly swung the shovel in his hands to stave off the unpleasant pricking in his chest. "Even caged yourself up in a host to make it happen."

( _a smoking hot one, at that. He'd eat his chain if Ereshkigal hadn't been thinking of the redhead when she chose it.)_

Ereshkigal's knuckle pressed against her mouth. "That… that was a special circumstance! Master's fighting for all of humanity, so I'm allowed!" She pushed on through her rising blush. "It can't be helped, mortals are so hopeless. As a gracious goddess, I'll help her out a little."

The transparent attempt to save face was charming. Especially on a woman who could crush stones to dust with her bare hands. It made him want to tease her a bit.

_(And he needed a distraction. He didn't want to think about the look in her eyes when she talked about Master)._

Putting on his best smirk, he leaned towards her. "So you'll bend the rules a little for mortals."

Her teeth were digging into her knuckle now. "Don't say it like that! I only—"

"What about Nergal?" he asked, scratching his chin.

"... what about him?"

"He was a god, yeah? Not one of those mortals you pity. But you still set him free from your underworld."

She rounded on him. "How… hmph. I suppose you've been reading about me, the better to court my wrath."

Entirely true, and Beowulf liked how quickly she'd realized it. More than a few Chaldea staff had gaped at finding him in the records room. As if his scars and swords meant he couldn't do anything but fight. Still he grunted. "Don't avoid the question."

Ereshkigal huffed and started walking again, keeping her gaze trained among the bushes and ferns. They'd already found and buried most of fallen from this battle, but she was a careful woman.

"Yes, I let Nergal return to the surface. But only after he surrendered half his Authority to me."

"So a bribe."

"It's not a bribe if it was meant for the benefit of Kur! I wanted his sunlight!" She scrunched up her nose. "It's not my fault he tricked me into taking his plagues instead."

"And Gilgamesh?" Beowulf countered. "He's always bragging that he died and came back so often, the underworld was his vacation home."

"I only allowed it to spite Ish—!" Her hand covered her mouth, but not the pink spreading over her face. She glowered at him. "Insufferable. It's like you're trying to make me angry."

She stopped and stared hard at his innocent expression.

"You _are_ , aren't you. So I'll decide you haven't learned anything, and bring you along next time too."

Beowulf offered her a toothy grin. "Is it working?"

Maybe the queen of the underworld was still getting used to wearing a human face. Because he probably wasn't meant to see her lovely lips quirk up before they flattened into a thin line.

"No. Next time, I'll make you polish my cages. By yourself. In the dark."

He whistled. "Giving me your cages? Heh, that's a lot of trust from you. Guess I'm flattered."

Again the emotions dance across her face, amusement warring with frustration before she settled on a scowl. "You're absolutely impossible."

She strode past him up a hill, muttering about checking mana flows. Beowulf dutifully followed. This time he didn't bother to hide his smile.

They found a few more bodies on the other side, half-hidden under ferns and shadows. Beowulf got to work with the shovel, while the goddess went to fetch rocks for the cairn.

It was slow digging, with all the roots tangled in the ground. He'd managed about three feet deep when Ereshkigal dropped an armful of stones beside him. Beowulf straightened and wiped the dirt from his forehead, then tilted his head when he saw she hadn't moved away.

"Something wrong?"

Her hands squeezed into fists, while her gaze rested somewhere near his chin. "I don't understand you." When he remained silent, she took a deep breath and continued. "You love battle, but there's none for you here. Not from me, or whatever strays we might stumble across."

"I do like a good fight." The shovel suddenly felt awkward in his hands. "But you're right. That's not it."

"Then what? If you wanted to… indulge in soft things..." Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes strayed lower to the ground. "... drinking beer in a sunlit garden, or… sewing, or baking, or whatever it is you don't want to admit to…"

Beowulf knew he wasn't a comforting presence. He scared people, and for good reason. Yet the way her breath caught, and the pink spread anew in her face… He felt like reaching for her anyway. Like running his fingers over those lithe shoulders to soothe her doubts away.

_No_. He'd already fucked up the other day, when he threw his savagery at her in a selfish bid for attention. Just because she'd been gracious enough to take him along today, it wasn't an invitation for more of the same. Sucking in a beath, he forced his arms rigidly to his sides.

"There's better people in Chaldea to do them with," continued Ereshkigal, thankfully oblivious to his turmoil. "This sort of duty…" she waved a hand at the shadowed woods. "This is what I'm best at. What I'm _for_. It's not pleasant for a mortal. But _you_ … you were happy when I commanded you to come with me."

_Shit_. So she'd seen right through him, after all.

"... and you want to come next time, as well. Enough to needle me over it." She sighed and spread her hands. "Why?"

Beowulf rubbed the back of his neck as he ran possible answers over in his head. Born in an age of strength, his kingship had more to do with felling beasts and foes than diplomacy. Yet he still had instincts, and they all screamed at him to tread carefully. Ereshkigal was patient, and far kinder than she realized. But she wasn't soft.

No choice then but the truth. Even if it made her pull away again.

He looked into the deep crimson of her eyes. The same colour as blood, but also the best wines. "I want to see more of you. That's all."

Ereshkigal flinched. The blush was back on her cheeks, the delicate pink edging into red. "A... admitting it so brazenly. You really are the worst."

"I get that a lot," he grinned. He pulled himself out of the grave and dusted his hands off. "While I'm being the worst, think I'll take a break."

She didn't chide him. Her eyes followed him as he took a seat under a nearby oak. The shade was nice, the breeze soothing on muscles still heated from work.

It was even nicer when she sat a little distance away, her bare legs tucked in close. "I suppose I'll allow it. You're only a man, after all."

"Yeah." He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against the tree. "I appreciate the consideration."

They sat in silence for a little while, broken only by rustling leaves and the cute way Ereshkigal's hands twisted in her cloak. She looked at him again.

"You're serious," she said, a hint of wonder in her voice.

Another smirk rose to his lips. "'Not exactly known for humour. Sorry, guess that makes me bad compa…" he trailed off when she clicked her tongue, and swallowed hard. "Yeah. I am."

"Even though I'm a monster. A witch." The mockery in her tone was largely directed at herself.

"Yeah. You are." Beowulf held up a reassuring hand as the hurt in her eyes sparked into anger. "But that doesn't stop you from being other things, too. And hell, it wouldn't be the first time I had more in common with a monster than the men around me."

That took her aback. "But you were so eager to pick a fight with me! If you just wanted to… sit and talk, then why would you…"

"'Cause that's what heroes do. They fight monsters." His mouth tasted bitter. "So when I saw ya, and couldn't look away… uh, stuff got tangled up." He rapped his knuckles over his head. "It took that fight for me to start unravelling it. Sorry."

"Hmph." But she looked pensive rather than angry as her fingers idly traced patterns in the dust. "Monster slayer… how many did you kill?"

"Lots. Beasts. Serpents. Witches." He bit the inside of his cheek. "A dragon, too."

"You were very brave."

Now it was his turn to be surprised. His eyes snapped up to the Queen of Kur's face, stern despite its beauty. He found only the ghost of a smile on her lips. Not enough to gauge what she was thinking.

Might as well keep going with the truth. She hadn't killed him for it yet, anyway.

"I guess, if you mean I stood and fought. 'Cause honestly, I was scared shitless half the time." He smiled wryly when she blinked at him. "But I had to fight them, no matter what. And once you're locked in, there's no more room for fear. It only slows you down, and you can't afford that. So you swallow it."

"I—I see."

Seeing the furrow in her brow, he hastened to add, "It gets easier, though! There's a rush too, and that helps drown the fear out." He inclined his head. "And after enough times, all you think about is the rush. It's good."

"You said you had to fight them. No matter what." Her smile looked painted on. "For fame and glory? To win their treasures?"

"Hah! No, most of them had nothing but their hides. I fought to make them stop." His hands clenched behind his head, remembering the hilts of his swords. "Stop killing people. Stop burning crops. Stop poisoning the water."

Some of the sternness drained from Ereshkigal's face. The smile was smaller now, but it felt more natural. "I see… very much like Gilgamesh. And yet not at all."

"Ah." Beowulf wasn't sure how he felt about that comparison.

Ereshkigal sighed and looked away, towards a sky cut by branches. "Yes, the land would have been full of such beasts. The world was younger, and angrier, when we still lived among you. Perhaps it really is for the best, after all…"

The melancholy of that sigh, the awkward fidgeting with her cloak... the urge to reach for her flared back, stronger than ever. His arms shivered with it.

"Hey," he said, because it was easier to hold back if he filled the space between them with words. "Even if we're ghosts, humanity still needs us. Master needs us. That's why we're here, yeah? So let's just beat up everything in her path, without regrets."

"I… yes, that's right! Master needs us." She nodded to herself, then paled. "Ah! We're still on mission. Let us finish and head back, before she worries."

Beowulf finished the grave, then stood by while Ereshkigal completed the last rites. Together they piled on rocks, to protect bodies nobody would remember from predators that would soon disappear along with the land. And yet it didn't feel like they'd wasted any time at all.

One last check on the southern border along the ridge, and they would be done. They headed down the forest path in weary but companionable silence. The sound of running water echoed through the brush, drawing closer until they were walking above a stream. Sunlight dappled across its surface. He slowed a bit, hoping for dragonflies.

Ereshkigal slowed too, her eyes trained on the yellow marshflowers growing along the bank. The red of her irises shone a little too bright, too liquid. A wistful smile crept to her lips. It was the same expression he'd spied during her endless stargazing, the same longing. But this time Beowulf could put it within her reach.

He stopped and pointed down towards the rippling water. "Pretty, yeah?"

"Ahh… y—yes, I suppose it is." Golden eyelashes fluttered as she followed his gesture.

"Let's go down. See it up close." He took a step down the incline, then held his hand out to her.

"What? No, there's… there's no time for that."

"We took a break for me. Only fair we take one for you, too." He tilted his open palm towards her. "Come on. Walking in the water for a bit won't hurt anyone."

"Water… it would be cold, but..." she murmured under her breath, chewing her lip. Then she straightened. "No. We're here on a mission, not to play around."

"You said it yourself, yeah? A great goddess like you can both check on the remnant and bury the dead. Dipping your toes won't change that."

She shook her head, but her eyes didn't move from the rippling water.

"Hey. If I can drink mead in Hrothgar's hall while we wait for nightfall, you can pick some flowers while you do a sweep. It's fine to mix pleasure and duty, so long as you keep your head." He scratched his beard. "What does that Zhuge guy call it? Moderation, yeah."

"Moderation…"

Her brow lifted, and Beowulf thought he'd convinced her. She just needed a little tug more. His fingers lightly closed around her wrist.

A sharp hiss escaped her lips. He barely registered the chill of her skin before Ereshkigal yanked her hand away like his touch was fire.

He took a step back on pure instinct, and almost stumbled down the slope. The look on her face… eyes wide, lips drawn tightly back over her teeth.

_Shit. Of course she's upset._ He grimaced. _She's a_ goddess, _and you're already in her bad books. Why would she ever let you touch her?_

Cursing whatever it was that fucked up his instincts around her, he looked away. "Sorry. That was out of line."

A sigh echoed in the woods. "No, that… I mean, yes it was! But you worked hard, and I'm in a gracious mood, so… if you understand, we can leave it at that."

When he glanced back, Ereshkigal was already walking down the trail. Her blonde twintails streamed behind the deep red of her cloak. Then, so softly he barely caught it, she added, "Thank you. But just seeing it is good enough."

"Alright."

He waited a moment longer, hoping she might change her mind. But Ereshkigal only picked up her pace instead, plated heels rigid with dignity.

Disappointment spurred his traitor instincts on. They allowed him to follow only a few steps before seizing his mouth. "So. Next time you do clean-up. You're taking me with you, yeah?"

She paused on the path. "Maybe."

Aching shoulders and a face caked with dirt had never felt more worth it.

* * *

"So your people drank beer, too."

Beowulf blinked and looked up from his keg. A certain goddess was smiling down at him from her seat on the observation platform

That was new. When they'd returned from the Rayshift, and Ereshkigal strode away without another word, he'd been sure that was the end of it. They'd go back to their usual routine. Except worse, now that he realized he was pining for her. _Fuck_.He wasn't sure he could bear seeing her crimson eyes cold with indifference again. Not after seeing them sparkle with interest. But his ale should be done settling, and leaving things half-finished wasn't Beowulf's way. So he'd come to collect it, dreading her cold shoulder.

Only she was talking to him instead. _Smiling_ even, small but bright on her fair face.

Heat blossomed at the nape of his neck. He grinned up at her. "Yeah, we liked beer. Wine, too. Mead. Anything we could get our hands on." Ruefully he spread his hands. "It got cold on winter nights."

"So less like Gilgamesh, and more like Enkidu." Her laugh echoed silver under the dome of the makeshift brewery. "He would have enjoyed living among you, I think."

"Thanks but no thanks. I like a good fight, but I hear that guy's an absolute beast when he's riled up. Had enough threats to my kingdom already."

"Indeed. Your dragons and beasts and witches." A small twitch of her shoulders showed she still wasn't fully comfortable with that side of him. But at least she didn't seem angry.

"Yeah. Too bad I couldn't bribe them off with drink. Would have saved me a lot of grief." He shoved a mug under the spigot. The ale came out pale red, and cloudier than he remembered. He took a long sip anyway, then made a face. "Definitely not with this stuff, though."

Her eyes brightened. "Ahh, is this your first time brewing too—" She caught herself and assumed a more composed air. "I mean, it's unusual for a king to make his own refreshments. Is it meant as an offering?"

Beowulf laughed. "Any god would strike me dead if I offered _this_ to them. Nah, I just thought I'd try it out. See if I could get anything close to what my mother used to make."

"I'm certain she would be pleased."

"Pleased, hah! She'd take a strip out of me for wasting all that grain." Savouring the little giggle that pulled from her, Beowulf pointed towards the flasks lined up on the goddess' table. "Trust me, she'd be a lot happier with your wine. It looks great."

Ereshkigal positively beamed. "Yes! It still needs a few more days, but the aura already feels right! I was a little worried, since my touch sometimes…" She trailed off, some of her enthusiasm flattening. "Well. I supposed the tablet was more powerful than my, ah, presence. And Ishtar did help."

Beowulf chewed the inside of his mouth. He glanced at his barrel. The decision came so easily, he was sure he'd already made it. Probably had as soon as she'd smiled down at him. "Hey. Since your wine's pretty much done, want to help me with another batch of ale?"

She blinked. "You… want me to help you," she repeated carefully. "With brewing."

When she said it like that… inwardly he cursed himself. "Sorry. I guess it's a bit insolent to ask a goddess so casually, huh. I should be petitioning you instead."

"Ah! That's right," she said, hurriedly raising her chin. "Ahem. Since you corrected yourself, I shall be tolerant." Decorum satisfied, she leaned down towards him again. Her red eyes sparkled with interest. "Ale, you say."

"Doesn't have to be ale. It can be anything, so long as it's not fancy." His nails scraped along the side of his jaw. "Can't expect too much from me. I'm not a divine spirit, or that oni girl."

"And you're not afraid I'll… taint it?"

He wrinkled his nose over the cup. "I doubt it. And even if you do, can't be any worse than this."

They both knew that wasn't true. They smiled at each other anyway.

"Then… I've been wanting to try mulled wine," she said, looking almost shy as she tucked her chin down. "We can look through the records for a recipe."

Beowulf had expected her to suggest asking Boudica, or even the red archer. He liked this option better. A _lot_ better. Giving certain staffers another shock when they saw him pouring over books again was just an added bonus.

"Yeah." He knew he was grinning like an idiot. He didn't care. " Let's do that."

* * *

Another pocket singularity came and was dutifully dispatched. And "maybe" crystallized into "yes" when Ereshkigal appeared at Beowulf's door, awkwardly tapping her foot as she demanded he follow her to the Rayshift room.

The stony ground of the mountain plateau would have defeated any human gravediggers. But they were Servants, and strong ones at that. They quickly buried the werewolves and their bandit allies, then continued up the mountainside.

Gravel slid under his boot. His eye followed it down to where the carcass of a demon boar lay broken on the rocks below. He almost tapped Ereshkigal on the shoulder, then remembered what happened last time he touched her. Clearing his throat, he pointed down into the ravine.

"That one?"

She barely glanced at the body before shaking her head and walking on.

_Humans and demi-humans only, huh. I guess she'd be encroaching on some other god's domain otherwise_. He puffed out a breath and watched it curl in the air. Ritsuka would have called the day chilly, but he found it pleasantly cool. _I wonder where Grendel would fit_.

The scorching gold of Ereshkigal's eyes when she'd seen the lamia seemed answer enough. Wincing, Beowulf slung the shovel back over his shoulder. He didn't want her to look at him like that again. Not when her smile was so much better.

"Hmm? What's with the holdup, is something wrong?" The goddess in question had stopped further up the road. There was a shade of concern in her eyes.

_Tell her. About what you did with Grendel's arm, about his mother and all the shit that followed. Just get it all out in the open now._

"Ah, no. We're good."

Guilt tightened around his chest when she waited for him to catch up. He shoved it away.

_I'm not hiding anything. It's right there in the books. Yeah, she probably already knows all about it._ He kicked a pebble from the path. _Besides, it happened a long time ago. And Chaldea's a chance to start over. She says so herself._

It was his imagination that the wind cut a little colder against his cheek. Nothing more.


	3. Chapter 3

_The wind howls over the lake, stirring the water up in frenzied waves. Beowulf shivers on the rocks above, winces with every spray of ice against his bare shoulders. It's bitterly cold. He can't remember Hrothgar's lands ever having been so cold, even in the dead of winter._

_This lake, this shore…_

(Twisted caverns far underground, dripping moisture and clotted blood.)

_Dread clutches his heart. He doesn't want to be here. There's nothing here for him, for anyone, but old nightmares._

(A step forward, then another. Down, down the craggy path. Then a dive into freezing water, and into the dark)

_Gritting his teeth, he pulls away and forces himself back towards the high walls of Heorot shadowed against the setting sun. The fading light paints the crags red, like they're covered in blood. He shivers again, and this time it isn't just the cold._

_But there are fires in the mead-hall's windows. And above them, the white wolf of his banner. His ship. Home._

_She's long dead, and there's nothing left to hold him here. Let the past stay buried._

_The wind blows stronger as he sets out for the hall, an icy brand on his face and chest. Shielding his face with his arms as best he can, he tightens his jaw and soldiers on. He won't let it_ _drag him back. Won't let her keep him from—_

Beowulf's arms jerked above him when he awoke, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Groaning, he rubbed them away and took in his familiar room in Chaldea. He'd never been happier to see the boring white walls, or the old punching bag chained up in the corner.

_Just a nightmare._ His violent life had given him a full gauntlet of them. Too many for any single one to haunt him. Yet the phantom cold clung to his skin, in his bones. It drove him to wrap himself in the too-soft sheets he usually spurned.

_Damn tenacious, too_. That was the third time in as many weeks that Beowulf found himself resting his eyes, just for a minute, then opened them to that haunted shore. All the more troubling because Servants didn't need to sleep. And unlike some of the others, Beowulf rarely indulged. At least not by choice.

Grimacing, he slid from the bed. _Forget it. She's just been on your mind lately, thanks to that stupid stunt with the lamia._ He drew in a ragged breath. _This is Chaldea, and you're both long dead. Her curse can't follow you here._

The sheets were soaked in sweat when he picked them up. _Fuck_. They'd have to be laundered before he could make the bed again. Even with the restoration of humanity, Chaldea's staff had better things to do then play maid. He'd have to bring the sheets over himself.

Fine by Beowulf. Some company sounded really damn good right now. He gathered the sheets up and walked out the door, hoping for a friendly face

( _and maybe one face in particular, framed by blonde hair and a midnight crown)._

Not that he'd talk about the dream, though. Beowulf knew to keep his nightmares to himself. His warriors needed strength from their king, not weakness. And while the maidens who snuck into his bed were happy to admire his scars and stories, they liked it a lot less when he shuddered in the night, and their touches weren't enough to soothe him.

As for Gunnhilde, his wife… Beowulf's jaw tightened as he stalked down the hall towards the laundry. She'd suffered enough from his battles. Even more from the one nightmare that followed him into waking.

_(My curse on you, killer of my sole-born. As you robbed me of my one joy and solace, so I take yours. No child shall spring from your blood, or sit upon your throne.)_

Almost violently, he stuffed the sheets into the chute. He'd keep his silence now, just like then. Endure until the dream faded away again. He was good at enduring—

"Ah, Beowulf! Hey, what are you doing?"

— except maybe embarrassment.

He was still delighted to see Ereshkigal, even if she'd caught him holding his literal dirty laundry. Well worth it, for how the nightmare slipped away before the warm curiosity in those red eyes.

"Doing some cleaning," he smiled. "Even a king should pitch in sometimes."

"That's good. I don't dislike hard workers." Noticing the bit of sheet protruding from the chute door, she coughed. "Not that there's anything wrong with some rest, too! I don't want you showing up on my doorstep because you couldn't pace yourself."

"Thought we already agreed I'm not Gilgamesh," he said, affecting a stern look. "Unless you want me to start comparing you to Ishtar."

"Don't you dare! Or I really will string you up on my chains," she said. Then she winced, the way she did when her darker speech slipped out around their Master. But Beowulf only smiled, and gradually she relaxed and returned it. "Are you done with your chores?"

"Yeah, that's about everything."

"Then I'll let you accompany me to the gardens. If y— you insist on it, that is."

The little stammer was cute. Also impossible to imagine from Ishtar. It was tempting to tease her with the difference, but that was for another day. Right now, he just wanted her smile.

So he nodded and walked alongside her, admiring the soft fall of blonde hair over her shoulders. They stopped in the kitchen to collect tea and beer, and in the break room for a deck of cards. Ereshkigal had insisted he learn a few games, in case they needed to pass time in the brewery.

Several times over the otherwise pleasant hour that followed, the nightmare pricked at the back of his brain. Each time, his scars burned cold under an invisible wind. Each time, he thought about spilling it all to Ereshkigal. Who better to look into the abyss with him, then the mistress of death herself?

And yet each time, he found his mouth snapping shut. Her slender hands on the battered cards, her brows raised in delight every time she had a winning hand…

_(It wasn't because explaining the dream meant explaining everything else, too. Why it chilled him to the marrow. And why he deserved it.)_

Beowulf didn't want to spoil the mood. That was all.

* * *

Ereshkigal liked card games. They reminded her of the Game of Ur, the board game that Gilgamesh had sometimes deigned to play with her on his descents down to Kur. Most of all, she liked that they offered some cover for social engagements. If she ever got flustered—not that a goddess ever did!—she could pretend to concentrate on her hand.

"So any matching pair," said Beowulf, running a hand through his shaggy hair as he considered his fistful of cards.

And maybe Ereshkigal did need a bit of cover from the Berserker.

"That's right. Then you place them down like this, and you draw from your opponent's hand," she said, trying to ignore the fluttering butterflies in her stomach.

While she enjoyed spending time with Beowulf, he made her a bit uneasy too. Because he was quite handsome, under all his scars. Because he smiled at her, even when a little of her old cruelty seeped through. Most of all, because she found herself _aware_ of his presence at her side, the shifting of muscles under his living skin. The heat that always seemed to radiate from him.

"And I can also hold them in reserve. To interrupt your turn." Beowulf hummed in thought. Calloused fingers left his head to tap against the table.

Ereshkigal often snuck looks at those fingers. She'd been thinking about them since that day in the forest remnant, when they'd brushed her wrist and left fire on her skin.

It had been too much, too suddenly. She'd pulled away on reflex. But her thumb had run over the spot many times in the days since.

Master's touch was a comfort. Ishtar's was a promise, a balm against old hurts. But the thought of sliding her hand in Beowulf's rough grip brought a different warmth. One that started in her cheeks and set her heart racing.

She was afraid he'd touch her again. She really wanted him to touch her again.

"Nevermind. Pass."

Drawing from the deck took a little longer than it needed to, but it helped Ereshkigal shore up her composure. Grimacing at her terrible hand, she waved at Beowulf to take his next turn.

A clink of glasses drew her eyes to a table on the other side of the peonies. Between the game and the man she was playing it with, Ereshkigal had missed Mash and Ritsuka's arrival. Bad manners on her part, but she didn't think they'd minded. Or even noticed, from the way they were sitting close, lost in their own world. A familiar steel flask sat between them, along with glasses halfway filled with divine wine.

Ereshkigal had expected it to hurt, watching Master drink her gift with someone else. And it did, a bit, but nowhere near as badly as she'd feared. Perhaps because the hopes she'd stirred into that liquor had shifted since.

"Match," smiled Beowulf, throwing a pair of eights on the table. "I'll help myself then."

Eagerly he reached for her middle card. Distracted, Ereshkigal didn't slide her hands away quickly enough. Warmth flared when his fingers brushed against hers.

Despite all her best intentions, she jerked away again. His mouth twisted into a grimace as he abandoned the card and settled back in his seat. "Sorry about that."

"No! You didn't do anything wrong."

"It's okay," he rumbled. "I know I'm a killer. I'm not soft or careful like Master. Makes sense you want to keep some distance."

But there was hurt in his eyes as they skimmed over his cards. Ereshkigal hesitated. It would be easy to let things continue as they were. Safer not to open to a man who'd gone out of his way to hurt her, however patient he seemed now.

She bit her lip. Her long years of isolation in Kur said everything she needed to know about safety protected by loneliness. And even if her reconciliation with Ishtar was riddled with cracks, it wouldn't have happened at all if she'd stayed closed off.

_And he_ is _careful. Even when he doesn't realize it._

That was just enough to overcome the churning in her stomach. Barely.

"Touch is… complicated for me," she said. "Warmth belongs to the living, and Kur held only the dead. It took a little while to get used to Master's hand."

Thankfully the pity in Beowulf's eyes soon gave way to a grin. _"_ Gotcha. So all I have to do is learn to give manicures like Master. Then we'll be set."

He'd clearly meant it as a joke, but the image of Beowulf carefully handling each of her fingers set her face ablaze.

"No," she choked. "I mean, even if you did, it wouldn't be the same. Your hand is different."

His brow furrowed. "Different how?"

"It's warmer. Just like the rest of you." Seeing the surprise on his face, she gave a small huff. "Hasn't anyone ever told you? Heat practically pours off you. It's like standing next to a furnace."

_Or so her vessel supplied, when she wracked her brain for an analogy. Ereshkigal had never actually seen one. But if it felt anything like Beowulf's skin… perhaps that was another thing to consider for her quarters._

"I knew I ran a bit hot, but… huh. No wonder Astolfo keeps asking me to be his water bottle." He grinned through her splutter, then leaned forward in his seat. "Okay, thanks for letting me know. Probably wasn't easy to bring it up."

Her nails clicked nervously on the table. "You're not upset?"

"Nah. 'Course, that's not to say I won't be all over you if you change your mind." Something wild flared to life in his eyes, dangerous but also a little exciting. "Say the word and I'm there."

Ereshkigal's face burned. "That's not—" she practically squeaked, before coughing into some semblance of composure. "You haven't earned such a thing."

"So I might if I keep working at it, then." Another wink, more insolent than the last.

"You're impossible," she sighed, hoping to cover the skip of her heart. "I've half a mind to set Urtur on you."

"Might not be a bad idea," he said, his face growing serious. "You gotta set barriers with me."

His hand moved towards hers again. Ereshkigal's breath hitched, but he merely plucked the card still loosely held in her grip.

"See, I'm greedy," he said, a fang flashing in the corner of his mouth. "I'll take as much as I can. So always hold me to what you're comfortable with."

She gave him a dubious look. "I... I see. And you'll be satisfied with that?"

"Yeah. Even if I'd like to, I don't need to touch you." He fanned his cards. "This is enough."

The impulse to reach across and grab his hand told Ereshkigal that it wasn't. It was nowhere near enough.

* * *

_The fire in Heorot's windows fades. Only a few embers still flicker in the darkening sky, and soon they'll be snuffed out too. Then it will be night in these wild lands. The time for beasts to hunt._

(Beasts and witches)

_Dread settles low in Beowulf's stomach as he presses on towards the shore. A violent gust sweeps his hair and rattles his teeth. No matter. He made it on the ship last time, and he will again. A ghost has only the power your fear gives it. It can't do anything to him, so long as he keeps his back turned to it._

_Even if the distance feels a bit longer, and the ground a little more broken under his feet._

* * *

"And that's Andromeda."

Ereshkigal followed Beowulf's finger to the bright star at the tip of the constellation and nodded. " _Lulim._ The Stag."

There was plenty of room on the observation platform, even with the old telescope bolted at one end. Despite that, she'd gathered enough courage to settle herself right next to him. Even through the barrier of her cloak, she could feel the heat radiating where her shoulder was pressed against his muscular one. It made it a little hard to think, especially when she caught herself tempted to trace a finger along the elaborate swirls tattooed down his arms. How could she have been so distracted by his scars, not to notice them before?

Coughing, she forced her eyes up to his broad face. But thankfully it seemed she wasn't the only one distracted, from his silence and the unconscious way he leaned into her. She waited a touch longer, then gently nudged him.

He startled, then cleared his throat. "Ah, sorry. Uh, _Loolim_ , right?" he dutifully repeated, then frowned when she stifled a giggle.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But your pronunciation is atrocious."

His mouth flattened in indignation. "Yeah? I'll teach you _Gēatas_ someday, and see how you manage."

"Maybe," she allowed as she cheerfully swung her legs. "But I'd like to keep going with Sumerian first. It's fun being the teacher for once. In Chaldea, I feel like I'm always the one having to learn."

Because watching things in her shadowed mirror, or in the scattered memories of her host, turned out to be poor preparation for actually trying her hand at them. She'd consigned every bit of malformed origami to the flames before Master could see them.

"Eh, we're all learning," grunted Beowulf. "Stuff we always secretly wanted to try, just like you said. Though I gotta admit, I never thought about wine-making until you showed me."

He waved a hand down towards the vats, filled with the mash they'd treaded that very afternoon. Urtur's cage was perched on the biggest one, the former warrior's soul standing guard at his own insistence.

Ereshkigal beamed. "Yes, wasn't it fun? Ah, not that I didn't enjoy learning to press grapes with Ishtar! But trying it again with you was nice too."

Nice was an understatement. There had been a shameful thrill in seeing the muscles of his calves at work, heavy scarring and all. But Ereshkigal refused to feel _too_ guilty, not when he'd spent so much time staring at her legs.

Perhaps she should have been offended. But his open interest was nice, after all the times Master had smiled right through her. There was affection in his eyes too, along with the gleam of desire.

Affection and desire, for the Queen of Death in all her gloom. That gave Ereshkigal the courage to nudge him again. "Even if you did prove disappointingly agile," she said playfully.

"Sorry," he grunted, though his eye twinkled. "Missed my chance to slip and pull you down. Definitely something for next time."

Heat bloomed in Ereshkigal's face as a vision formed of sliding among the crushed grapes, half-soaked in juice with her hands scrabbling for purchase on that broad chest. Coughing, she fixed her eyes on the stars. If she looked at his face right now, and the smile he was surely wearing, she might combust entirely.

"Next time," she said, trying for serene and missing by a yard, from the way her voice shivered in her own ears. "There's always a next time with you."

"Hey, greedy. I did warn you," he said agreeably.

"You're incorrigible," she huffed without anger. "Only a goddess could have the patience to deal with you."

"Yeah." He offered her his most charming grin, and she wondered that she could ever have thought him brutish. "Lucky I've got the best with me. I always kind of envied Cu for getting to train with Scathach, but I definitely won out in the end."

She was _definitely_ combusting, the heat spreading down her neck and setting her heart racing. Hurriedly she jabbed a finger at the next star, desperate for a change of topic to give her some breathing room. "Th—that one! Let's do that one next."

Beowulf's fond gaze rested on her a shade longer before he glanced up. "Hmm? Oh, that's Regulus."

" _Ninurta_ ," she said, then winced when he butchered the name. "Try again, please. If my uncle ever comes to Chaldea, he'll definitely take offense."

Beowulf gaped at her. "That star's your uncle?"

"Oh yes. Ninurta, Lord of the Plow. His eye sees—well, saw— everything that grew or walked on the earth."

_The deep places of the earth too, all the way down to Kur. But he didn't look there often._

"Hah. And the sun's your brother… damn. Must be something, having the blood of the stars in your veins."

"Well, it's only natural," she said, fighting to keep from fidgeting with the hem of her cloak. "You're talking to a goddess, you know."

_A goddess, but for all her vast power, she'd been chained to the earth. Condemned to watch, but never follow, as her kin soared through the night sky. That was why she knew the names of the celestial bodies so well. She had whispered each countless times, hoping against hope that they might visit._

_They never did. Not until Ishtar's descent._

Her breath flattened in her lungs. Even if things were better with her sister these days, the memory was still a knife twisting in her gut. She didn't want to dwell on it.

Instead, she turned to Beowulf. "What about you? You're neither a Caster, nor a scribe. How did you come to know so much about the stars?"

"Navigation," he answered easily, tugging at the metal of a cuff. "Spent a lot of time at sea."

A little too easily. She gave him a skeptical look. "You need only a few to find your way, but you must have half the sky in your head. And a king has little time for idle knowledge."

This time it was Beowulf's turn to study the constellations. But when it became clear she wasn't going to drop it, he sighed. "You're going to laugh."

"I won't—" she began, then thought of his face when she'd briefly let Urtur out in the brewery, and the spirit had flown directly under the Berserker's nose and made him sneeze. "Alright, maybe I can't promise that. But I'll try my best."

"You know, from you I actually believe that." The corners of his mouth tugged up in a reluctant smile. "Okay, stars. I… used to talk to them, on nights when I couldn't sleep." The look he shot her was almost defiant. When she only nodded encouragingly, he huffed and kept going. "When I got lonely, or scared. Because there was a beast waiting for me on the other side, or an army, or something awful I had to do."

Ereshkigal wrinkled her nose in confusion. "But you're a man. Ah, a mortal, I mean. Didn't you have companions for that?"

_But even as she said it, Ereshkigal knew. For all that she envied the ease with which humans formed bonds, it wasn't the case for all of them. She only needed shards of her host's memories to see empty halls and feast days spent alone over books, far from the distant laughter floating in through the windows._

"I did. They were good men too. Brecca and Wigalf and the rest." Seemingly on reflex, his nails dug into the scarred skin of his forearms. "But I was their king, before I was their friend. And a king has to be brave for his people. If they saw I was scared, then they'd worry… well, you're a queen. Of a way bigger kingdom than I ever had. You'd know all about it."

Ereshkigal nodded, her eyes resting on the flame flickering blue in the cage below. She did know.

"And this might sound arrogant," rumbled Beowulf, "but at the end of the day, they couldn't come with me. The beasts were too strong, the miasma too thick. Their weapons broke, they lost their nerve. In the end, when the monster was spitting venom down my neck, I was always—"

"Alone," interrupted Ereshkigal, unable to help herself.

He audibly swallowed. "Yeah. Alone."

Silence stretched between them, but not as painful as Ereshkigal might have thought. The heat of the shoulder still pressed against her own eased the sting of her worst memories of isolation. Reminded her that while she had been unspeakably lonely down in Kur, and sometimes still in Chaldea despite her friends, she didn't feel that way now.

"Hey," said Beowulf after a bit. His finger had found the brightest object in the night sky. The one they had both avoided so far, as if by unspoken agreement. "Venus. That's you, isn't it?"

Ereshkigal's mouth twisted bittersweet. "Myself and Ishtar both. The light comes from her. The shadow on the far side is mine."

"It's beautiful. The whole thing."

Hearing that from someone—more than that, from _him_ —it was too good to be true. She'd despaired of hearing such words for so long, it felt like they would burn her fingers if she held onto them.

Her gaze fell to her lap. "You don't have to lie. I know how gloomy I am."

"Oh _come on_ ," growled Beowulf, making Ereshkigal snap her head up in surprise. His red eyes held an almost accusatory look as he leaned towards her. "Yeah, you've got some dark to you, to go with your shine. I _like_ it." Crossing his arms, he looked down at the barrels below. "I don't know how to make it clearer to you."

Something buried in Ereshkigal's chest for centuries slowly unknotted. Not fully, the hurt was too old and too deep for that. But for the first time since she'd stepped off the summoning platform, she felt like she could truly breath.

The relief made her almost giddy as she stared at the sulking bear king. To see the grim man lose his composure in such a way, and know she was the cause of it… laughter slipped from between the fingers she clapped over her mouth.

"Glad to know you think it's funny," he rumbled, resentment tinging his voice.

"Not that way," she said, tugging on his chain so he'd look at her. When he did, she gave him a shy smile. "It's that… you're right. No matter what I show you, what we do, you keep coming back. Well." Her smile took on more boldness. "I suppose a shadowed hero is perfect for a shadowed goddess."

Red eyes widened in surprise, before he gave her a shaky grin. "You got it. I mean…" he waved at the angry red scar spread over his chest. "Look at this. Not a lot of kings would want these in their court. Let alone gods."

"I do," said Ereshkigal, and held his eyes. "You earned those brands fighting to protect others. I'd be proud to welcome any soul with such marks to my kingdom."

He wasn't the precious Master that Ereshkigal had longed to follow. He was grim and violent and damaged. Nothing at all like what she'd thought she wanted.

Ereshkigal wanted to touch him anyway. Wanted him.

Before she could rethink it, her hand slipped from under her cloak and reached for his. Her fingers brushed over the back of his hand, tracing the silver scarring. _Hot_ , his skin was just as hot as she remembered. It sent a pleasant tingling through the ice of her own.

Beowulf didn't recoil from her chill. If anything, he seemed to relax under her touch, a rough sound escaping him that sounded like a lion's purr. Encouraged, she flattened her hand until it lay fully on top of his. Warmth spread through her palm and pooled up her arm. Her shoulders loosened with it, and she gave a little sigh of contentment.

When she glanced up, Beowulf grinned at her.

"Isn't it cold?" she found herself asking, jabbing the needle in herself. An old habit, to pull away and hurt herself first, before the world could.

"A little," he said, slowly turning his hand so that their palms were touching. It was almost as rough as the back, hardened by sword hilts, but the intimacy made her breath hitch. "Still feels really nice. And hey, your hand's warming up as we speak. Perfect excuse to hold on a little longer."

"Not that you needed one!" she giggled, and watched his mouth quirk up in merriment.

His mouth. _His lips_. Ereshkigal wondered if they would feel warm, too, and felt an answering heat in her cheeks. A heat that exploded when Beowulf's other hand cupped the side of her face, callouses rough against her jawline. He turned her face to look at him, red eyes shining as he leaned towards her. This close, she could smell smoke and leather, and a masculine musk wildly different from her flowers but just as pleasant.

Then he kissed her, and all thought slipped away.

_Warm_ , his lips were so warm as they moved tenderly on hers. There was very little taste even to her starved senses, despite what all the romance books had told her. Perhaps a faint taste of beer. His stubble scratched her chin in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant, but that all melted before the incredible heat of his mouth, of his breath mingling with her own. It poured into her, spreading down until she could feel it curling her toes. A bit overwhelming, but wonderful too.

Far too soon, Beowulf pulled away, their shaky breaths hanging in the air between them. She could tell by the nervous shine in his eyes that he'd taken himself by surprise too.

"Too much?" he asked.

_Set your boundaries, Ereshkigal._ Because Beowulf was a creature of instinct, and everything in his expression—the darkening shade of his eyes, the flaring of his nostrils—screamed that he really wanted to kiss her again. If she wanted this to stop, this whirlwind of sensation and emotion that threatened to drown her, she had to move away now.

She leaned forward until their noses touched. His breath blew hot against her face.

"Again," she said, and wondered at the firmness in her voice.

He happily obliged.

* * *

"Scarves… nah, she's already got a cloak to keep her warm. And a choker for decoration. The hell would she need a scarf for?"

Leaning back in his chair, Beowulf awkwardly tapped through the electronic catalog. Screen after screen of modern goods glided in front of him. They would have delighted his people, save perhaps for diehard curmudgeons like old Aetla. Yet even with a world of choices at his fingertips, nothing fit the bill. She deserved the very best offering, or courtship gift, he wasn't even sure what to call it. Didn't care, so long as it made her smile.

He tapped again. "A brush—fuck, bad idea. What if she thinks I'm trying to hint that her hair's a mess?"

Glancing around his quarters, he blew out a sigh. Maybe he should ask that Chevalier d'Eon, they seemed in tune with what a fancy lady might like. Or Nitocris, another queen that ruled over the dead. She'd know what might suit Eresh's tastes. Something both pretty and dignified, and warm underneath.

Something like Eresh herself, in other words.

Beowulf licked his lips, thinking about the other night on the platform. Her mouth had been so soft. Cold at first, but warming under his until it felt like he would melt into her. And the kiss had been only the start. The feel of her shoulders, when he'd wrapped his arm around them walking her back to her room. The silk of her hair when it brushed against his chest.

_Nah, fuck the catalog._ Beowulf was going to shower her in gold. Even if he had to clear a few dragons' nests to do it

A knock rapped on his door. He hurriedly shoved the tablet under his mattress and went to open it.

Eresh grinned at him from the other side and hefted her spear. Then said, in a voice pitched deep and rough, "Come on, mortal! Fight me, already!"

Beowulf winced. He definitely hadn't sounded like _that_ when he'd challenged her to fight, even at his worst. Then her request sunk in.

"You want to spar?" he asked in disbelief.

Because as much as he'd enjoyed their battle that day in the corridor, he'd goaded Eresh in the worst way to get it.

Eresh proudly lifted up a familiar cage. "Urtur and I have been practicing a new technique! I think Master will be really impressed, but I want to try it out against a live opponent before I show her."

"And you chose me," he said wonderingly. "Even after last time."

_Gold, and jewels, and a heap of magic swords too. She deserved no less._

"Well, that's part of why," said Ereshkigal. "You've already seen my dark side and didn't flinch. So it feels safe to—I mean, you've earned seeing my full strength. And I think you'd enjoy it." She hesitated, free hand curling in her cloak. "But it's o-okay if you don't want to. We can do something else—"

"Oh hell yes, I want to!" he said, and grinned at her relieved smile.

That should really have been enough. Another chance to battle the witch queen, but this time as willing rivals. Her eyes flashing fierce and proud, her blood singing along with his, just as he'd imagined.

Yet he was greedy for more. Always greedy, when she was involved.

"Then I'll see about booking the simulator—" Eresh was saying when he took a step towards her.

"But I'm a hero, you know?" His grin sharpened in response to the graceful arch of her eyebrows. "If I beat the terrible monster, don't I get a prize?"

"Ah?" Her lips pressed into a line. "Very well. I don't have access to Kur's vaults anymore, but I can offer—"

"A kiss," he said. "From the mighty queen."

Desperately he hoped his smile qualified as "winning" instead of awkward. Beowulf really was trying, but he knew he lacked the natural grace of that Arthur guy, or even Cu.

The flame spreading over Eresh's face took some of that tension out. His smile felt more natural as he relaxed.

"You're awful," she huffed. "But yes… if it will motivate you to do your best, I s—suppose this goddess can agree to that."

"My thanks to you, great goddess," he said, giving her a playful bow.

"Stop that. It doesn't suit you at all," she laughed, lightly shoving his shoulder before stepping back into the corridor. "Please wait here. I'll arrange things with Da Vinci and come back for you."

He watched admiringly until she disappeared around a corner, then slipped back into his room. Summoning his swords to hand, he checked them for blemishes. Not that there would be any in crystalized legends, but it was a habit left over from life. Grinning to himself, he swung them around a few times to limber up his arms. He wanted to be in top shape for their duel.

The door behind him hissed open. That was a lot faster than he'd expected. Maybe she'd forgotten something.

He'd barely begun to pivot around when the scent hit him. Ripe fruit and polished steel. Nothing like Eresh's dry perfume, yet it struck him as strangely familiar.

"So you're the one that has my sister so wrapped up."

Wine-red eyes on a face identical to the one he'd delicately run his fingers over last night. Shining black hair and imperious smirk, minimal clothing cut to show off every curve and toned muscle.

"Ishtar," said Beowulf, inclining his head to cover his discomfort.

It was disorienting, how she looked so much like Eresh while feeling nothing like her. Ishtar was loud and bold and brash, where her sibling was thoughtful and shy under the mask of authority. Even their expressions differed, despite being worn on identical faces — he couldn't imagine Eresh's brows ever furrowing as harshly as Ishtar's did as she looked him over. It felt rather like the stern face Beowulf used to wear himself when he appraised his warriors for battle.

( _Not that he'd mind if Eresh's dress hid the same curves that her counterpart was flaunting — no, no, he was getting way ahead of himself there)_

Beowulf involuntarily tensed, tightening his grip on his swords as the goddess spun around him. Once, twice, as intently as a hawk circling prey. Then she heaved a sigh.

"There's really no accounting for taste, is there? With all of Chaldea to choose from, she goes for the grim—well, I shouldn't be surprised." She gave an exaggerated shrug. "She's still Ereshkigal, when all's said and done."

That rankled Beowulf, far more than the predatory gaze she used on him. "What do you want?"

"Straight to the point, hmm? I like that," she smirked, before jabbing a finger between his eyes. "Then listen up, mortal! Hurt my sister, and I'll blow you to smithereens."

Beowulf blinked. "What? But I've stopped picking fights with her. And I like to think we're getting along." A clink of chains dragged his gaze down to the blades he was still holding. "Okay, yeah. I see your point. But it's just a spar, and she's the one who asked—"

"Don't play the idiot," scoffed Ishtar, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "I'm not worried on the physical front. Ereshkigal is almost—if not quite—as mighty as I am. She can more than hold her own against a mortal."

Beowulf opened his mouth to retort when the woman drifted closer, until her mouth was a whisper away from his ear. The drifting scent of pomegranates made his nose wrinkle and his head spin. Distantly he felt his swords fade away.

"She let you kiss her," murmured Ishtar, and he could feel her lips curve up, hear the reluctant admiration mixed in her voice. "No, more than that. _She_ kissed you."

How did she kn—no, of course she knew. More than the goddess of love, she was the other half of Eresh. This ( _confrontation_ ) conversation had been inevitable from the start.

Drawing himself up, Beowulf stepped back so he could look Ishtar full in the eye. "Yeah, she did," he said defiantly. He wasn't sorry, not in the least. Not when he could still taste her lips on his, and hear her soft sigh. "And we're going to do it again, too. All the time."

The challenge in his grin seemed to both please and irritate Ishtar. "Good. At least you've got some courage to go with your scars." She crossed her arms and huffed. "But if you can say that, then you know why you're dangerous to her."

"I'm not going to hurt her," he said, then shivered when a phantom wind blew ice over his face. Snarling, he pushed the sensation away. "I'd rather die than hurt her."

"And there it is. No wonder that red archer's worried." Ishtar briefly massaged her temples before glaring at him. "I should charge you a kingdom's worth of gems for my divine wisdom. But you're poor, and I'm feeling gracious today, so I'll cut to the chase." She pointed an imperious finger at him. "There's a thousand ways you can hurt her now that she's opened her heart to you. Dying is definitely among them."

"Good thing I'm not planning on it, then," he growled. "And I don't want to hear about hurting people you love. Not from _you._ "

"I grant my favour as I please. I take it away the same way. That's the prerogative of the Goddess of Beauty. I won't apologize for it."

Despite her words, a shadow passed over her face that might have been regret. Before Beowulf could think more on it, she pressed a finger to his forehead. Hard.

"You're just a mortal. So mark what I say."

"Fine. Consider me warned." He swatted her hand away and scowled. "Anything else?"

The red of her irises took on a gleam of gold as she floated a small distance away. Still easily within attack range, as shown by the small spark crackling on her finger.

"Don't take a goddess lightly," she said, her smile all teeth. "You don't want to piss me off, or my bow might slip a little early, you know?"

"Sure," Beowulf gritted out. "Now if that's finally it, kindly shove off. Eresh is waiting for me."

He shouldered past her into the hallway. There was nothing worth taking from his room anyway, and he needed some space until his fingers stopped itching for his swords.

"And she lets him call her that," he heard Ishtar sigh behind him, no doubt with another theatrical shrug. "Haah. I'm glad she's over Master, but there's a limit. I thought she'd go for someone soft. Bedivere, or maybe that Tamamo with the fluffy ears."

He turned, a growl low in his throat. Then stopped when he spotted her wide grin.

"But I was afraid she'd end up lured by a snake, like that Goldie. So even though my sister could definitely do better... " Ishtar winked at him. "She could do a lot worse, too. I suppose I'll be gracious and leave it at that." With a flutter of black hair, she floated down the corridor away from him, then paused and glared. "But remember. _Smithereens_."

Then her toes vanished around the corner, and she was gone.

Beowulf let out a breath as his spine unstiffened. As beautiful as divine spirits could be, even confined by mortal hosts, they were also lethal. He felt uncannily like he'd just been poked at by a dragon.

Then again, he regularly sought the company of someone just as dangerous. Better, he was about to throw himself into a vicious duel against her. And he couldn't wait.

_(He'd march through miles of dreamscape, however biting the wind. However cold the fear gnawing at his heart. Every night, if fate so decreed. It was all worth it, so long as he could wake up to this)._

* * *

"She is—" Ereshkigal's fingers clenched on the grass so hard a few blades tore loose, "—the worst goddess. Just the worst."

The duel had succeeded beyond Ereshkigal's hopes. Not just because of her victory (though it had been satisfying to see Beowulf caught off guard when the torrent of coiling serpents burst from Urtur's cage), but for the chance to see the man in his natural element.

With her mind unclouded by anger, she could fully appreciate his wild grace as their blades clashed again and again. The thick cords of muscle that formed his body should have slowed him down. Instead, he almost flowed like water as he danced under her spears and shadows. Red eyes shone with pride and joy of battle, of strength tested and sharpened by strength. It made even her frigid blood sing with it.

The duel ended with her blade at his throat. With the adrenaline of combat still soaring through her, she drew him up before she could second guess herself. Then she claimed her own prize, her lips pressing over his.

She might have taken another, if her courage had held, and if not for the hitch of Beowulf's breath when she braced herself on his shoulders. That lifted the haze in her mind enough to remember the cuts and bruises littering his body, wounds she'd put on him herself.

So instead she eased him down to rest on the grass, however much he protested that he could shrug it off. Maybe he could, but the twist in her stomach refused to put it to the test.

It had been comfortable sitting there together, basking in the late afternoon sun. Then Beowulf shared his encounter with Ishtar just before they'd headed into the simulator, and Ereshkigal saw red.

Leave it to her infuriating sister to ruin things.

"The utter _nerve_ of her," said Ereshkigal through gritted teeth. "For centuries, Ishtar couldn't be bothered to take the slightest interest in me. And now she thinks she can meddle?"

"Sorry," Beowulf rumbled around the stem of dry grass in his mouth. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No. I'm the one who should be apologizing. It's because of me that you got caught in Ishtar's cross-hairs."

Sighing, she looked down at the shredded greenery stuck to her fingers. Even if the meadow was only a simulation, she still felt a little guilty. It added another sour note to the emotions roiling in her gut.

"It's fine," said Beowulf, putting down his straw. "She's just worried for you. I'd be angrier if she wasn't."

His face shaded in thought for a moment, before brightening into a roguish smirk. The smirk he seemed to save for Ereshkigal alone.

"And hey, look at it this way. It's not everyday I get a deity's approval to court her sister."

The burn in Ereshkigal's cheeks was all too familiar. Sometimes it felt like she did nothing but blush around this man. Mortifying for a queen and goddess, yet she didn't want it to stop. Didn't want to lose the sunlight that came with it, scattering over her skin and settling in her breast.

"Still," she huffed after a pause. "I don't need her approval. She hasn't earned that right." Ereshkigal's hands reached for the grass again before she forced them back into her lap. "Don't get me wrong. I know she's trying, and I do appreciate it."

Ishtar's protective act was exactly the kind of affection she'd long craved from her proud sister, and it did warm her to know she was valued. Maybe that was why it also curdled unpleasantly in her mouth.

"But it's complicated," murmured Beowulf, shifting up on his elbow to peer at her.

"Yes."

Even if Ereshkigal couldn't abandon Kur, an occasional show of support from her sister, a simple kind word, would have soothed her cold isolation. Yet it had taken Chaldea, and the influence of her host, for Ishtar to reach out her hand. Whatever her good intentions now, they couldn't fully erase centuries of neglect and hard feelings, and grudges were powerful things.

At least Ereshkigal was slowly learning to let them go. For Ishtar's sake, and for her own as well. The old hurts were receding, replaced by fresh memories of growing flowers together, and Ishtar sprawled on her couch as they chatted far into the night. The smile she greeted her sister with now held real warmth. She wouldn't let the past strip it away.

Rolling her shoulders, she glanced towards the Beowulf, stretched out in his sunny patch, eyes bright as he waited for her to continue. _New memories, to replace the bad. I'm glad we came here today._

"Don't worry. I'll have a talk with Ishtar later to set her straight," she said after a moment.

"Sure," he rumbled, and again she giggled, imagining him as a great cat. Then his mouth twisted, and she felt a flicker of unease. "But… she's not entirely wrong, you know. I'm a pretty rough choice for a goddess. Don't have a drop of divine blood in my veins, or the shine of those other rulers." His gaze looked past her, towards the phantom mountains visible in the distance. "They made me king, but I was better suited as a warrior. Or maybe just a weapon. You really could do—"

"Enough," interrupted Ereshkigal in a firm tone, pressing a hand down on his shoulder. "Didn't we already settle this? A shadowed hero for a shadowed goddess."

"But—"

"And I'll choose as I like, thank you."The narrowing of her eyes snapped his mouth shut again. "Don't presume to dictate to me."

"I… yeah." He gave a weak chuckle. "I guess I'm being stupid."

"You really are," she said, letting her expression soften. "And… if you felt that way, then you had no business doing that." More heat in her cheeks. "K—kissing me. Or do you regret it?"

"Definitely not," said Beowulf. "Fuck. I'm sorry if I made you think that." He heaved a sigh. "I'm really no good at this."

His hand reached for hers, still perched on his shoulder. She drew it away, even as she craved the warmth of his fingers. There was more she had to _(jab into her own weak points_ ) say first.

"And speaking of dubious choices…" Her hand left his shoulder and returned to fidget in her lap. "I'm hardly a fair maiden. Everything you find beautiful about me is borrowed from my host. This body, even the… forgiving parts of my personality. The true Queen of Kur is far more unpleasant, you know. She is the monster you first sensed stalking among the vats." She bit her lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "You say you like my shadows, but do you know what that actually means?"

"No. I probably don't, not really." said Beowulf. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, barely audible over the pounding in her ears. "But you know what? I don't care. This is the only Ereshkigal I know, goddess and vessel and all. The one I fell hard for." His brow took on a sullen bent. "So don't go making choices for me, either. Even if you _are_ a goddess, and I'm just a mortal."

The knot in her chest came a little bit more undone. Enough to let in more sun, to flood out the lingering doubts and fears.

"Not any mortal," she smiled. "Mine. Even if I have to take you down to the underworld and lock you up." She winced a little when the sentiment slipped out, but let it stand. Beowulf would understand.

And he did, his chest rumbling with laughter. "Alright. And… thanks, Eresh." A smile settled on his face. Softer than his usual grin, though it made her heart beat just as fast. "You're right, we did already settle this. I guess I just needed to hear it again."

"Good," said Ereshkigal, trying for confidence despite her blush. "And… and as this goddess is benevolent, I can say it again. As many times as you need it."

_As many times as we both need it._ But the Queen of Kur wouldn't let her voice it, not yet.

"Yeah," sighed Beowulf, eyes half closed as he stretched himself out on the grass. "Then if I can impose one more time… think I'll take a nap before we head back." He chuckled at the arch of her eyebrows. "Soak up the last of the sunshine."

"We're running late as it is," chided Ereshkigal, even as she felt herself weakening. It wasn't responsible, when the simulator was in high demand. Da Vinci would be annoyed, and rightly so.

The peaceful look on Beowulf's face provided a powerful counterargument. Maybe it was alright, just this once.

Folding her legs under herself, she smiled as she saw him slowly unstiffen, his stern face softening as he began to drift. She was a little sleepy herself, but that could wait.

"I bet you charmed all the maidens like this," she murmured as she moved a little closer, until her fingers brushed the rough silk of his hair.

"Ahh, no," he said, catching her by surprise. She'd thought him fully asleep, or she would never have said it so openly. "Didn't court much. Never needed to." From the furrowing of his brow, he seemed more embarrassed than proud about it. "Most of them pretty much slid into my bed. And Gunnhilde was given to me, even if I tried to make her happy after."

"Of course," said Ereshkigal, trying to keep the envy from her voice, along with a renewed impulse to lock him away from other eyes. "A brave man attracts many lovers."

"Maybe, yeah. But as fair as they were, as much as I liked them…" A shiver ran through his frame, despite the warmth of the simulated afternoon. "I never got as close to them as I wanted. My fault, and unfair to them. It's just…" He sighed. "None of them could follow me into the dark."

"You don't have to worry about the dark anymore," said Ereshkigal as she pressed closer and drew his head into her lap. "You're under the protection of its mistress now. And I don't let go of what's mine."

Whatever embarrassment she might feel about letting a mortal rest on her faded away before his contented sigh. Once his breathing evened out, she let her fingers gently roam his face. The rugged skin felt hot, just like the rest of Beowulf. Like sand warmed under the sun, like fires twinkling in the hearths of Uruk, but now at her touch instead of a distant dream.

"I'm really indulging you," she smiled. "So be a little grateful."

A small ping informed her that they were twenty minutes over time. She resolutely ignored it.

* * *

_Night has swallowed the shoreline. A faint sliver of orange sun setting on the churning waves is the only light. Soon it will drop out of sight entirely, and there will be only darkness and biting wind._

_Beowulf's stomach drops when he forces his back to the lake, his face towards the empty hall and the sea beyond. The white wolf of his banner, the beacon of the ship and home, is lost in the gloom. He can see nothing but broken stone faded almost to black, and the deeper shadows of boulders and gnarled trees. They loom like malignant giants._

_He takes the first step against the gale anyway, though his feet feel as heavy as lead. Then another one, through the seizing of his muscles. Even if he can't see the wolf, he has faith. So long as he holds onto it, nothing can keep him from home. From the faces waiting for him._

_Pain bites into his fist. At first Beowulf thinks it's only the wind's icy nails. But the sting comes with a sense of weight, and he looks down to find Hrunting in his hand. The sword's spiky edge glimmers red in the fading light. It's not a comfort, even less when he twists his other hand and Naegling refuses to answer his call._

" _Of course, only Hrunting," he mutters to the night. "Only the one that failed."_

_An ill omen. Worse, another shackle locked around Beowulf's wrist to drag him back into blood-soaked nightmare. Gritting his teeth, he pushes on. It doesn't matter, so long as he reaches the ship. He won't_ let _it matter._

_He manages a dozen more steps before a familiar voice rings out behind him, echoing high and clear in the night._

" _Where are you going, Beowulf?"_

_The blood freezes in his veins, colder than the howling gale._

Don't turn around _, his mind screams._ Don't get distracted. Just keep walking towards the ship, no matter what the night vomits up. _She_ can't stop you unless you let her.

_But that's his Master's voice. Even here in the forgotten wilds of his past, it commands him. The crimson sigils of the contract etched into his essence pull as tightly as a noose._

_Unwillingly, a puppet on strings, he turns around. Ritsuka is standing on the very edge of the cliff overlooking the lake, her black combat suit buffeted mercilessly by the wind. A single step back would send her tumbling into the raging waters below._

" _Master!"_

_Instinctively Beowulf rushes towards her. His fingers reach to grab her and pull her back to safety. Then her eyes lock with his, and he comes to an abrupt stop. Even in the dying light, Beowulf should be able to pick out the amber warmth of her irises. Instead, they are pitch-black, like the pupils have swallowed them up._

_Worse than that, for even black can be warm. But not these serpent eyes, staring back at him from his Master's face. Their cold venom leaks into the girl's smile._

" _Aren't you coming with me? We have a remnant to solve, you know." She's wearing a scarf, he notices now. Thin and red, a streak of solidified blood, coiling against the wind to wrap around her wrist. "Pay all debts. Set things right."_

_She holds his gaze a little while longer, and it feels like the venom drips into his veins, paralyzing him. Then stones slide under her feet as she moves away, down the shoreline trail. The connection breaks. The strangling wire loosens. He can breathe again._

_He hates the sense of disappointment that gnaws at him under the wash of relief. Shaking his head, he glances back towards the midnight shore._ The ship.

" _Nah. Let's go home, Master," he forces through dry lips. The crunch of boots on dead grass carries above the wind as she continues down the stony path. "There's nothing here to settle. Just old bones."_

_Duty demands he follow after and snatch her back from the brink. He almost does, before his instincts jerk him in place._

Don't get distracted. _Beowulf bites the inside of his mouth, hard. The taste of blood helps to steady him_. It's just a trick to keep you here. Get back to the ship.

_The ship. Chaldea. And the person he most wants to see, far more than the thing wearing the skin of his Master. It's not a vision of a white wolf that pulls him back towards the sea this time, but of red eyes and a star-crown shining on golden hair._

_He's a quarter of the way there, stumbling through midnight terrain and the withered leaves the freezing wind sends flying in his face, when a voice calls again. Lower and huskier, with the rolling richness of good mead. Not Ritsuka's voice, but it spears his heart even more painfully._

" _Acts of injustice done, between the setting and rising sun, in history lie like bones, each one."_

_The cadence of a song, murmured with the sweetness of mockery._

Don't look back.

" _Gunnhilde," murmurs Beowulf as he pivots around anyway. His wife is standing only a hands-reach away, her face hidden behind whipping strands of chestnut hair and storm-tossed leaves._

" _Those bones don't fade away, o king." She spreads her hands. The tips of her fingers are red with earth and blood. "The wind blows the sand away, until they gleam white in the moonlight. They won't let themselves be forgotten."_

_A strong gust lifts her hair, and for a moment he can see her face. Her mouth is twisted in a pained grimace. The one she always tried to keep from him, when she stole up to their chambers to cry herself to sleep._

" _That's right," she says as she fiercely rubs her eyes. "I wanted a child to hold close, to guide and watch grow. Your crime robbed me of that child." Her teeth clench, stark white in the gloom. "They made you king when you had no right. And I had to marry you, even though I hated you."_

_A vise locks around his chest and squeezes tight._

Was that true? Gunnhilde never complained, always touched him with tenderness. But the shadow in her eyes, when she looked towards the village… it feels like it could be true.

" _I'm sorry," he chokes out through the tears stinging his eyes. "Gunnhilde. You're right, I should never have been king. You should have had a husband that made you happy. Children to make you laugh." His hand tightens around Hrunting's hilt, making it dig painfully into his palm. "I couldn't refuse our people, even if I hated ruling. I couldn't just leave them." His shoulders drop. "But you shouldn't have suffered for what I did. For that… I'm sorry."_

_Gunnhilde's hands cover her face. Her sobs carry over the wind, cutting him deeper than the freezing chill._

" _Then set me free, my lord," she pleads. "Face the ghosts you left behind, and accept their judgment. Set us all free."_

_Before he even realizes it, he's taken a step towards (_ the lake _) her. By the gods, it's tempting. Fight the witch one last time, and let her claws gouge out the guilt until his wounds finally bleed free. Be absolved, the crushing burden of his guilt and regrets finally lifted._

(Soft hands carefully patting earth around a sunflower)

_Snarling, he pulls himself back on the path. Eresh is waiting, and there's so much he still wants to do with her. Share with her._

_Hrunting falls from his hand to clatter on the stony ground. Beowulf doesn't so much as glance at it as he walks on._

" _No. You aren't Gunnhilde, or even Aglæca." The name is poison on his tongue, but he forces it out. Fear only gives it power. "You're just my guilt taken form, and I won't play with you any longer." A mirthless laugh escapes from his mouth. "Let the past stay in the past. I've got things to do."_

_The wind picks up, fiercer than ever. Leaves fly in his face, sharp and hard. One cuts cruelly into his cheek and makes him gasp with pain. Another tears into his hand when he throws it up to shield himself. When he yanks it out, he's holding a dragon scale._

_(_ \- serrated scales and slitted eyes; a savage maw bearing down on him, dripping venom from each vermillion fang—)

_His breaths come in sharp bursts, his lungs shuddering. He clutches at his head to shake away the vision of his death. When he looks up again, Ereshkigal is standing before him, cloak billowing like devil's wings. His gut wrenches painfully when he sees her face. It's stern as ice, her eyes hard. Even at her coldest, she's never looked at him with such scorn._

" _If the past can't touch you, then why are you so desperate to keep it buried? What won't you tell me?" Her lips curl into a frigid sneer, one his most fevered kisses couldn't melt._

" _I.." he mutters through a mouth suddenly filled with spiders' webs. "She's got enough to worry about. Not going to trouble her with my burdens."_

" _Liar!" Malice flashes in her eyes, in the widening of her smirk. "You're afraid I'll see you as you really are. Murderer, butcher, despoiler of the dead."_

(the lamia head, dangling from his fingers. The gold of Eresh's eyes, blazing with hurt and fury)

" _It's not a secret. She already knows," he growls, squaring his shoulders as he pushes past her._

_That's a lie, he knows it is. For as much as he loves Ereshkigal, the queen of the underworld is vindictive as well as merciful. She'd never kiss him, not if she knew what he'd shown her that day was only the tip of the claw. Not a one-time mistake, but a pattern. A reflection of the brute he really was._

Even so, I want to see her.

_The sky is pitch black now, a wall of solid dark. But the white wolf is behind it, and the ship that will take him back to the waking world. So long as he holds faith, he'll get there. That his shoulder can almost brush the ghost's, without grim claws or worse sinking into him, is the proof of it._

_Her scream pierces the darkness. It rings viciously in his head, sets his teeth rattling as he stumbles. When he whirls back on instinct, she's still wearing Eresh's face. But the eyes are neither soft red nor burning gold. They are dripping pools of black, ichor running down the pale cheeks he'd so longed to touch._

" _Don't you_ dare _walk away from me!" she howls, gnashing her teeth. "I won't let you! Why should you have a future, after you robbed my son of his?"_

" _Kill me then, if you can," says Beowulf. Anger flickers in his breast, but it's a weak ember under the weight of his weariness. "I'm going home. I've had enough of this."_

"I haven't _." Eresh—no, the thing wearing her shape—abruptly falls to the ground. The cloak flies loose in the wind, then sails upwards. Stretches and fills, burns black, until a grim shadow towers over Beowulf in the gloom. Knowing that it can't touch him doesn't stop the fear rattling down his spine. "You love her?" the shade gurgles in a voice like clotted blood. "Then I'll scratch her eyes out and break every bone in her body! I'll cleave her head in two and throw it to the serpents!"_

_The threat ignites a fire in Beowulf's chest, burning the fear into rage. Growling, he tightens his grip on Hrunting. The red haze falling over his brain makes him forget that he'd thrown it away._

" _Don't you touch her!" he roars, and swings Hrunting._

_It shatters on impact. Steel fragments explode in his face. They cut as savagely as the wind ripping through him, as the scales impaling themselves in his back._

(Beowulf)

_The pain burns. His madness seizes it and turns it into frenzy. He lunges after the shade—_

"Beowulf!"

And jerked awake in Eresh's lap, dripping cold sweat. Blood pounding in his ears, he looked up into the beautiful red eyes peering anxiously down at him.

"Don't scare me like that!" said Eresh, shifting her grip on him. A hand brushed the bangs from his face, before she coughed. "I mean, it's graceless not to respond to your goddess' call."

Her huff didn't hide the tension that still locked her shoulders. Guilt prickled Beowulf's skin, knowing he was the cause of it.

"Sorry about that," he managed, a little more shakily than he would have liked. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

He raised himself up a little bit, hoping to shake off the lingering dream paralysis. They were still in the simulated meadow. It was evening now in the artificial world, the grass turning russet in the fading light.

"I've been trying to wake you for the last ten minutes." Eresh shot him a reproachful look. "If the spar was tiring you out so badly, you should have said something."

( _It will be dark soon_ )

Beowulf shuddered in her embrace, his teeth chattering in the chill of a phantom wind.

"-you're shivering!" gasped Eresh. Her eyes clouded as she took in the trembling of his limbs. Frowning, she pulled away; slowly, so his head eased onto the grass. "... I'm sorry. The cold of Kur… I carry it with me, even here." The pain in her voice— worse, the _blame_ —made his heart clench. "This won't happen ag—"

Beowulf grabbed her hand and tugged her back. "Don't go. Please." When she leaned back towards him, mouth agape, he forced away the ice in his bones and smiled. "It was just a dream from my past, old regrets. Not you, Eresh. Never you."

Despite his words, her hand was cold in his.

_It's not you_.

That might not actually be true. Beowulf _had_ been courting death, in an almost literal sense. And Servants were already glorified ghosts, pulling the fabric of reality thin around them. Especially in a place like Chaldea, where world lines and eras clashed against each other. It wasn't beyond possibility that growing closer to Ereshkigal, breathing in her dark aura like perfume, could have strained the barriers enough to allow old grudges to surface again.

"Alright. And… thank you, Beowulf."

Her soft voice flowed over him, warmer than sunlight. He could listen to it forever. Beowulf's old self, that glowered at a witch queen from behind the barrels, might have thought it a trick; deemed his dreams a warning. But Beowulf refused to believe it of the woman he'd come to love, sharp edges and all. Even if Eresh's presence had dredged up a nightmare, it wasn't a scheme but a consequence of his choices. One he was determined to endure, if it meant staying by her side.

He smiled at her little hitch of breath as he nuzzled his cheek into her hand. Cold, yes, but a soothing cold to ease pain and bring comfort. Nothing like the cruel ice of his dreams.

"Thank _you_ , Eresh. For everything."

"Of course," she said, full of warmth.

Gently she stroked his hair like she might a lion's mane, a pleasant pressure against his scalp as her fingers weaved around the strands. Then she straightened.

"Ah, it's getting late. Even later, I mean."

Beowulf waved a hand. "If we're already in trouble, might as well stay a little longer."

Her laughter floated on the breeze. "Tempting, but no. We really should be getting back." A deep sigh. "Or my foolish sister will be getting all sorts of i—ideas about what we've been up to."

Beowulf suspected that covert interference from Ishtar might be why Da Vinci hadn't interrupted them yet, but Eresh probably wouldn't appreciate the thought. He still resolved to be a little nicer to the black-haired goddess next time he saw her.

"As the lady commands, then," he smirked, rising to his feet and taking advantage of their intertwined hands to pull her up with him.

She laughed as she let him, and he felt himself melt a little bit more.

"We should do this again soon," said Eresh, then playfully tilted her chin up. "No, I _command_ it." When he didn't immediately respond, the smirk he'd been admiring wavered on her lips. "Beowulf? What's wrong?"

( _I can keep_ her _trapped in my dream, where she can't hurt anyone. I just have to endure.)_

The thought filled him with courage, as much as the shining red of his woman's eyes. "Hey, Eresh?"

"Y—yes?" Her shoulders straightened, perhaps at the solemnity in his tone.

"I'll protect you. No matter what."

Pink bloomed in her face, though she held his gaze. Her slender but athletic frame tensed in an unconscious show of power. "Hmph. I think that's my line, isn't it?"

"Even so," he said, and leaned down to press his forehead to hers.

She inhaled sharply, but didn't shove him away despite the sweat still coating his brow. He held there for a moment, savouring her scent, the cool of her skin, before pulling away to look her in the eye.

"I promise."

"I… well, a queen can always use a champion." Eresh smiled, even as her fingers pulled at her cloak. "I suppose you'll do." To his disappointment, she put some distance between them again, touching her ear as if miming a device. "Da Vinci? We're ready to go now, please."

A hologram of the Caster's beaming face coalesced in the air. Beowulf though there was a touch of extra smugness in her smile.

Leaving Eresh to deal with her, he looked out over the meadow. The sun was setting fully now, throwing the sky into dusk. A shiver of cold ran through him, along with a sting in his cheek. His hand reached up to rub it away. Those dragon scales had been damned sharp.

Red stained his fingers when he drew them back.


	4. Chapter 4

The rapping at Beowulf's door wouldn't stop.

A groan escaped him as he rolled over in bed. He was sorely tempted to shove the pillow over his head and ignore it. But no, he had responsibilities. Even if his muscles ached and he felt entirely drained, like he leaked electricity with each breath.

Another sharp knock.

"Fuck," he grumbled through the terrible taste in his mouth.

Groggily he hauled himself up and stumbled over to the door. By the time it occurred to him that he should run his fingers through his hair or something, try to look a bit presentable, it had already hissed open.

Cu leaned against the frame and scowled at him.

"Mission briefing started ten minutes ago." The words were clipped, with none of his usual easy drawl.

Beowulf scratched the stubble on his chin, blinking as he tried to make sense of this. _Mission brief… oh, the winter castle. Shit._

"Right," he managed. "Yeah. I'll be right there."

Cu looked unimpressed. "Think I'll walk you. I get the feeling you might keel over halfway there if I don't."

Indignation prickled up Beowulf's spine, before fatigue dropped it away. He was too tired to respond to that little quip as it deserved.

"Do as you please," he muttered instead, brushing past the Lancer towards the mission room.

Everything felt a little fuzzy as they walked down the corridors. The bright lighting hurt Beowulf's eyes. He rubbed irritably at them, then glanced at Cu.

"Master sent you to fetch me," he grunted, a statement rather than question. He still felt the need to say it, just on the off chance Cu might correct him. If he was lucky, maybe the young magus hadn't noticed his slip-up.

The other's eyes narrowed at 'fetch', and Beowulf winced. He knew better than to scrape against that nerve. God, he really was tired.

"Yeah, she did," said Cu, after letting him sweat a bit. "She wanted to come herself, but Holmes wouldn't let her. She's the lynchpin of the plan, so we can't afford to have her mess up. That's why he's drilling every last detail into her head right now."

Even through his haze, Beowulf knew something sounded off there. "Drilling… Holmes?"

The corner of Cu's lip lifted. "Okay, more like asking her a bunch of leading questions and forcing her to find the answers. It's the same thing with that guy." Pausing, he shot Beowulf a pointed look. "Master's not doing so hot at it, by the way. Almost like her mind's somewhere else."

"Right," grunted Beowulf through a wire-tight jaw. His ears burned with shame, knowing he was a burden rather than a help to his Master. He resolved to do better.

That didn't stop him from yawning.

Cu stopped in his tracks and stared at him, mouth turned down. "This isn't like you, bear king. You're usually as hellbent on duty as that silver knight. What's eating you?"

"Nothing," said Beowulf, a little too sharply. "Just running myself harder than usual."

When Cu's eyebrows wagged, the Berserker remembered who he was talking to and snorted.

"Not how you're thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter."

Cu held his smirk a shade longer, then shook his head ruefully. "Nah. If you were having fun with your lady, you'd be mellow. Instead, you're tense as a rat in a snakepit."

For the space of a breath, Beowulf wanted to tell Cu everything - dream, curse and all. Not only was the Lancer a friend, he was famous for shrugging off pain. Hardship, too. If anyone knew how to stay awake through exhaustion, or at least sleep with one eye open, it was the victor of Cooley.

He opened his mouth—

( _A flash of scales, smoke trailing over a malignant eye)_

— and closed it again.

_They couldn't follow him. In the end, he always faced the nightmares alone._

Cu's fingers snapped inches from his nose. "Hey, Beowulf. You still with me?"

Despite his flippant tone, there was real concern in the crease of his brow. It made Beowulf's stomach churn.

"Stay out of my business, hound," he growled, and pulled ahead.

"Suit yourself," shrugged Cu, quickening his pace just enough to draw level again. "I've dealt with enough stubborn guys in my time to know a losing battle when I see one." He smirked and waved a hand. "Just don't make your girl sad. I might just steal her from you."

_That_ punched through the fog of fatigue. "Try it and see," rumbled Beowulf, with a grin that showed all his teeth.

"Heh, that's more like you," drawled Cu, relaxing back into his usual stride. "Bring some of that bite to the mission, yeah?"

Beowulf nodded and followed along, hoping to escape the guilty conscience nipping at his heels. As much as he hated to admit it, today wasn't a fluke. He was sleeping through more and more of his life in Chaldea, and all his commitments. When was the last time he'd helped Boudica haul potatoes to the kitchen? Hell, when was the last time he'd even set foot there? He couldn't remember.

Worse, it was cutting into his time with Eresh. Last Thursday had seen him sprinting to the brewery to make their date ( _lucky for him she'd only teased him a bit about being eager to see her as they ground the spices for the mulled wine)._ And he _was_ late for their spar the next day, though he'd explained it away as Master waylaying him. It wasn't technically a lie, since Master had asked him a question in the hallway, but it brushed close enough to scorch his mouth.

_This can't go on._

The treacherous thought rattled in Beowulf's mind before he shoved it back into its cage. He could manage it, as long as he needed to. He was good at enduring.

The briefing room door slid open, and Cu sauntered ahead. Beowulf could feel Artoria's glare from across the room when he followed, though Ritsuka brightened and waved at him. Schooling his expression, he took a seat next to Drake as the discussion resumed.

_Endure_.

* * *

The dreams kept getting worse. Beowulf woke up later, and always a little bit weaker. He felt stretched thin, too little meat over too much bone.

He still didn't tell Ereshkigal.

Not in the brewery, where her face lit up when he pressed the golden flasks into her hands, the ones he'd painstakingly bargained for with the older Gilgamesh. Not when she made him lavender tea, asking about his tired state and gently smiling through his excuses, patiently waiting for when he was ready to talk.

Not when they sat at the darkwood table in her room, chatting as they polished cages until they shone as bright as the souls they housed. Not during the instant their lips had briefly parted, as they tripped towards the couch. Not even when she rested her head on his shoulder, drowsy in the circle of his arms.

He didn't tell her about the stormswept shore, or the lacerations his body had to heal on waking. He didn't tell her how many times he'd seen her pale form broken under the shadow's feet, or how close his rage and fear had come to sending him rushing back towards that haunted lake.

Beowulf held his silence because he wanted her to be happy.

( _Eresh's eyes, burning gold with rage and contempt as she stood up from the lamia's head)_

And because he wanted to be happy with her, as greedy as that was.

* * *

The ancient well was a ring of cold gray, rising from the broken cobblestones of the castle courtyard. The once smooth rock looked pitted and scarred by time. It would be cold under Ereshkigal's fingers. As cold as the wind whistling past the stern walls and turrets enclosing them.

How long had it served as a cage for the beast she could hear shifting in the darkness below? Long enough for the grating to rust a coat of brown along the well's mouth. It looked like old blood. She wrinkled her nose and pulled her cloak more tightly around herself. Just to ward off the chill, nothing more.

"Think the seal will hold?" asked Beowulf from his seat on a broken slab of masonry.

His slouch might have looked comfortable if not for the subtle tension in his jaw. Still, the cold, or perhaps the adrenaline, seemed to be doing him some good. His eyes seemed clearer than they had during the last week, his shoulders less drained. Not that he seemed as badly off as Marie worried, but men often put up fronts.

_No, Ereshkigal. Don't pry._ She bit her lip. _You promised yourself you wouldn't._

Ereshkigal understood the need to maintain dignity, if only for oneself. Beowulf had already shared so much with her, much of it painful. If he needed a little longer to voice his current troubles, she would graciously allow it.

She didn't want to risk pushing him away. Not when the hollow in her chest didn't ache anymore.

"That's a no, huh?"

His question made her realize she'd been drifting. Embarrassed, she straightened her shoulders and raised a finger to lecture, a pose that always made the red archer smile.

"From the priest's records, it's held for more than a hundred years," she said, using her other hand to keep the wind from whipping her twintails in her face. "However, such spells grow more brittle over time."

"Brittle enough to break if a bunch of strangers blunder over it."

"Da Vinci did her best," sighed Ereshkigal. "SHEBA's predictions suffer in accuracy the further things stray away from established order. For a worldline confluence like this…" she clicked her tongue. "I'm sure Master will find the archaeomancer before the seal unravels entirely."

"If she doesn't, we'll handle things." His smile was disarmingly gentle as he got up and walked over to her. "Doesn't matter what he's got in that monster's nest down there. Nothing gets down to the village."

"The fate of the living doesn't concern me," she huffed. "It's just difficult if too many souls arrive at once, you know? It's hard to find cages for all of them…"

It was a weak excuse. Kur had faded away with the Age of Gods, and much of her _(purpose)_ burdens with it. Beowulf didn't call her on it, only stood by her side. In turn, she pretended not to see the knowing glint in his eye.

Silence fell between them, filled by the wind's lament and the scraping of claws deep underground. The iron-gray clouds that had so baffled Chaldea's sensors covered the entire sky, making it feel more like a ( _cavern_ ) ceiling.

Ereshkigal shivered in the wind. It was cold and lonely, standing here in the gloom with stone pressing in from every side. A bit like Kur, but without her kingdom's silent dignity. She hated it.

She was just reaching to pull up her hood when Beowulf's brawny arms slipped around her waist and pulled her flush. A little squeak escaped her as his chest pressed against her back, radiating warmth as he folded himself fully around her. After a moment, she moved her own hands to rest on his and leaned into the hug.

His body heat seeped through her cloak and dress, spreading through her skin and warming her. Ereshkigal had heard a lot about hot springs, and had always longed to try them herself one day. But she couldn't imagine they felt any nicer than this, like her whole body was being bathed in warmth.

_He really is like a furnace_ , she smiled to herself, then gave a little gasp when he kissed the crown of her head. She melted into him as he moved his lips down the shell of her ear, then her jawline, before coming to rest in the crook of her neck.

"Does that help?" he murmured against her skin.

"Yes," she whispered, burying deeper into his embrace. She savoured the heat washing over her limbs, radiating from his comforting bulk to suffuse every inch of her. "Thank you."

"Good." He hummed under his breath as he swayed them back and forth, gentle despite the power of his arms. Then he chuckled. "Never thought a goddess could be delicate."

"Don't ruin this," said Ereshkigal, slapping his thigh to play along with the affection in his voice. "If you anger me, I'll have to throw you down that well. And I'm enjoying having a block against the wind."

"Didn't have much wind in Kur?" he said agreeably, shifting them so that he was fully shielding her from it.

"None. Everything was always still." A deep sigh fell from her lips. "That was one of the things I really wanted to do, when I came to Chaldea. Walk outside with someone on a windy day."

Admittedly she'd imagined it hand-in-hand with Master, but now she pictured a forest stream, rippling water and marshflowers. Next time, she'd definitely take his hand and step off the bank, let the waves roll over her toes. Even if the sensation turned out as overwhelming as she feared, she could bear if he was there to anchor her.

"Good idea. I like the way it messes up your hair." His voice was husky, and suddenly far too close. "Makes you look wild."

"S—stop that. Master is counting on us," she said, trying for a stern tone to remind them both that she wasn't going to push the man down and scrape her teeth along his throat. No matter how appealing the idea sounded. "I really should take a firmer hand with you."

Beowulf only laughed and pulled her more tightly against him. Slipping her hand down to wrap around the chain of his cuffs, she gave it a tug.

"The queen can tame any beast, wait and see." Saying it like that… it made her cheeks heat up, but it made her feel powerful, too. It was a good feeling. "And once I'm done with you, I'll master the wind, too. Here and in my dreams."

His arms suddenly tightened around her. "Dreams," muttered Beowulf, the word falling harsh from his mouth.

"Is it so strange?" Ereshkigal asked, shifting in his arms so she could glance up at him. "I may be a divine spirit, but my vessel requires s..."

Her tongue caught as she realized what she was admitting. Sleep was a weakness, one she had never willingly indulged in during her long centuries in Kur. It was a matter of responsibility, not just to the souls under her care, but to living things as well. Gods were creators, even Ereshkigal with her taint of death, and her control could slip in dreams. Sleeping meant the risk that unfortunate things, monsters and curses, might slip out into the world.

Her finger nervously wrapped itself in the end of one twintail. From a selfish perspective, that lack of control also made a god vulnerable. And there were many entities, some even worse than Ishtar, ready to take advantage of weakness to strike essence or usurp authority.

From the way Beowulf's eyes narrowed and the cords visibly tensed in his neck, he understood the seriousness of her slip. "Tell me more about your dreams."

The grim tone made Ereshkigal uneasy. Still, if opening a window on her troubles might encourage him to talk more about his own… She swallowed the inner voice whispering about dignity and elegance, and pushed on. "I mostly dream about my kingdom. Walking through the cold and the dark. Looking for stray souls before they fall to the Abyss." Shivering, she tugged his hands closer around herself. "Sometimes I get glimpses of my vessel's life instead. Then there's a rifle on my shoulder, and tall towers rising out of the sands, to scrape a faded sun."

"Towers," he said, sounding almost relieved.

"Yes. Other things too, of course." She idly rubbed the chain between her fingers. "Though of late, it's all been one dream. A stormy lake at night. The wind there is just awful—ow! Beowulf, that hurts!"

"S—sorry," he said, low in his throat. The crushing strength of his grip loosened again.

Ereshkigal whirled around to reprimand him, only for the words to die away at the look on Beowulf's face. His mouth was drawn tight, the red of his eyes almost frozen as they roamed anxiously over her. Hesitantly he raised his fingers to brush over her cheeks, almost gingerly; as if he expected the simple gesture might hurt her.

"Beowulf," she said, and gently but firmly pulled his hands away so she could look him fully in the eye. "I'm alright." Ignoring the whipping of the wind, she stepped back and spread her arms to show her untorn clothes. "See? Those wolves from earlier didn't get a tooth in."

"Good," he grunted, though the deepening furrow of his brow made it clear he didn't give a damn about the wolves. "This lake. What does it look like?"

"... the water is black, as dark as the waves in the Abyss. The shores are rocky, the wind kicks up an icy spray. When I turn around, there's a building in the distance." His sharp inhale echoed around the empty courtyard. "Do you know it?"

"Maybe," he muttered, looking away from her. "But don't worry. It can't hurt you."

That, combined with the shudder that visibly ran through him, only set a dozen more questions burning on her tongue. "Don't be foolish. I'm not going to—"

A screech of torn metal cut her off. She spun around just in time to see broken grating sail through the air to crash against a ruined pillar. A scaled talon grabbed at the stone edge of the well, claws splintering solid rock as if it were cork. Then the beast hauled itself up and out, the bony knuckles of its six feet scraping hard against the cobblestones.

"Here it comes!" called Ereshkigal, throwing out her hand. Golden light shimmered inside her palm and materialized into Meslamtaea's shining edge.

The clink of chain and sword echoed beside her. "Right! What is it Master always says?" rumbled Beowulf, though his grin looked a bit forced. "You shall not pass!"

Their voices brought spiraled horns cutting through the gloom to face them. Malevolent green sparked deep inside the sockets of the beast's skeletal face. A sharp hiss sounded through its fangs, answered by a dozen more from inside the well. Already another set of claws scrabbled on the stone, each long enough to impale a man. Let alone the young village boy that had pressed his lucky charm into Master's hand.

Shadows lengthened as Ereshkigal lifted her cage high. "I'm not letting you go!"

Spectral jaws pulled the beast down, where the massive heft of Beowulf's sword shattered its skull to fragments. No time to bask in the victory. Dozens more were breaking through the earth, some of them heading for the open archway.

The frantic battle that followed drove the question of dreams entirely from Ereshkigal's mind. She and Beowulf alternated between chasing down the skeletal nightmares, and fighting for their lives when they caught them. Even Beowulf's lightning reflexes and Ereshkigal's shadows weren't enough to save them entirely from the curved talons and cunning hearts of their enemy. Blood and mana dripped from their wounds to spatter trails on the dark stone of the hallways. It didn't matter. Ereshkigal would take this pain and more, if it meant eliminating the threat. She knew the man at her shoulders felt the same.

The onslaught finally slowed, but diligence demanded they ensured that nothing had slipped through. Beowulf was giving her a boost up to the palisades when they heard approaching footsteps. Hurriedly slipping back to the ground, Ereshkigal closed her fist on her spear. Then a familiar shock of red hair came into view, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ahh, Master! We've taken care of the fiends, just as you asked."

"Oh, thank god." Ritsuka's strained smile took on a bit more warmth as she walked over to them, flanked by Drake and Mash, the latter carrying a large oilskin packet. "Great job, both of you."

"Of course," said Ereshkigal carefully. Normally she would have happily accepted the praise, but the brittleness in that smile... "I take it you defeated the archaeomancer?"

"... yeah. Godfrey's gone," said Ritsuka, blowing out a long breath. "It got a bit ugly, but yeah." She pointed at the packet. "We grabbed his records of incantation at Da Vinci's request. They look like they're written in Sumerian, of all things… I know this is a bit below a goddess, but do you think you could have a look when we get back?"

Ereshkigal glanced over at Beowulf. The man's broad back was turned to them, shoulders stiff in the wind. She really wanted to continue their earlier conversation, to coax out what so troubled him about her dreams, but she wrenched herself back to the magus. Duty always came first, whatever the demands of her heart.

"I'd be happy to, Master," she said through a forced smile.

When the disorienting spiral of the Rayshift's ( _infinite hollow, a million pinpricks flaring under the skin of her mind)_ blue light faded, they found an impromptu committee waiting for them.

The older version of Gilgamesh imperiously demanded the packet, regardless of the presence of literal divine wisdom in their midst. That inevitably started an argument with Ishtar, which would have rapidly progressed into a fight if not for Mash's shield and Astraea's timely intervention.

By the time Ereshkigal had finally seen the records and delivered her opinion, Beowulf was long gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Beowulf tossed and turned in his bed for what felt like the ten thousandth time. Now that he finally _wanted_ to fall asleep, it was proving impossible. Maybe it was his nerves, wired tight after the shock he'd received in the winter castle, or the primal dread of night over that haunted lake. Or maybe Aglæca had just decided to be exceptionally petty in making him suffer.

Whatever the cause, he couldn't stand it. He groaned into his pillow. The curse was leaking out of his dreams, reaching with grisly fingers to corrode everything he held dear.

( _rot her from the soul out, tear away her happiness like Gunnhilde oh gods)_

Beowulf was going to settle things once and for all, even if it meant plunging back into black water and screams. Now if only he could _fucking sleep!_

There was a faint clink of metal heels coming to a stop outside the door, painful in its familiarity. Where once it would have sent his heart soaring in his chest, now it sunk it in guilt and shame.

"Beowulf." Eresh's voice whispered through the cracks. "Come out. I haven't seen you in more than three days. Nobody has."

The gentleness in that voice, from a queen that could shatter the earth with a simple call, almost broke him. And yet…

_She's been asking about me, in spite of her pride._

He was a total asshole, a terrible excuse for a hero. Because the hero was supposed to make his lady happy, yeah? Not make her suffer for his sake. But even in this situation, even choking on guilt, hearing that made him a little happy.

_Don't open the door_ , he commanded himself, even as his feet carried him out of bed and towards it. _You don't get to see her, not until the curse is put to rest. Don't make things worse._

The crushed sigh from outside told him it was too late for that. With Master, he was shirking his responsibilities as a warrior. Bad enough, even with all the other weapons at her side. But with Eresh…

"I can't help if you won't talk to me," she said. Then a dull thud against the door, and he could practically see Eresh slumped against it.

Beowulf had meant to hold his silence, he really had. But the image of Eresh's proud brow furrowed in pain, hands trailing listlessly in her cloak…

"I'm sorry," he groaned before he could stop himself. "I'm sorry, but you can't…"

He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood. The selfish part of him wanted nothing more than to throw open the door and gather her up in his arms. Brush away her doubts with his fingers, before burying his own anguish in her shining hair.

And she'd listen, of course she would. That was the worst part.

"I don't want your help," he snarled. His mouth burned like it was holding a live ember. "I'll find you if that changes. But for now… just leave me be."

A sharp inhale from the other side. Instinctively Beowulf took a step back, half expecting Ereshkigal, Queen of Kur, to command him. Maybe bash his door down. A treacherous part of him even welcomed it; rejoiced in the idea of being forcibly pulled from his duty.

Eresh's sigh fell like bitter snow. "So you don't trust me, after all."

It _hurt_ , hearing that broken edge and knowing he was the cause of it. It hurt like a physical blow, like a lungful of glass rattling in his chest.

He forced his hands rigidily to his sides, before they could open the door on him. "I _do_ , Eresh. Heavens above, I do. With my very life. But you can't help me here." His throat felt hard, every word wrenched. "... it wouldn't be fair to you."

" _This_ isn't fair to me!" she burst out. "At the least, you owe me an explanation. Is it that dream I had, with the lake? Are you having it too?"

Beowulf's nails dug hard into his palm. Endure, he had to _endure_ , no matter how badly he wanted to spill all his shadows at her feet. That would only forge more connection, and risk drawing Aglæca's malignant eye closer.

"Or is it something I did?" Eresh's voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but each word was a shard directly to his heart. "I… it's not the place of mortals to criticize divinity, you understand! But… it's true that even a goddess can make mistakes. So if I've somehow made a misstep… then please…"

_Tell her!_ His mind screamed the demand, his hands shook with it. Anything to soothe away the self-loathing he could scent like acrid smoke in her aura, even through the barrier. _Tell her everything, so she knows it's really not her fault. Tell her, so she knows what she means to you._

He couldn't. Not when it would solidify the curse's hold on her.

_(and she'll hate you, once she sees what you really are.)_

"I'm sorry, Eresh," he said, gritting his teeth so hard it felt like they might shatter. "I swear on Hrunting and Naegling both, it's not you. But it's something I need to do."

A long pause, filled with nothing but his own harsh breathing. Then, so quietly he almost didn't catch it, Eresh's whisper.

"You don't have to be alone."

The shards melted, pushed away by a vision of stars through glass and elegant fingers clasped around his own. Selfish or not, Beowulf couldn't take it. Not when she went and said _that_.

But just as he was reaching for the electronic lock, he heard her straighten behind the door. The cloak's ruffling sounded almost harsh, the clack of her heel hard on the floor.

"I can't understand you. Again."

The words gauged deep in his heart, made worse by the hard edge of ice in Ereshkigal's voice. It froze the blood in his veins, caught his breath so hard in his chest that he almost staggered with it.

Her footsteps were bleeding away now, and he almost burst out the door to follow them. But that ice, and the scorching gold of her ire…

_(holding the mangled head aloft, while the hall exploded into cheers and toasts)_

_No_. This was Beowulf's mess—his crime— and thus his responsibility. Once everything was settled, he'd find Eresh and apologize. Even if she might not forgive him, for underneath the warmth of her smile and careful fingers, the Queen of Kur was vengeful.

_That's okay_ , he thought as he stalked back to his bed. _I'd rather have her angry at me then dragged into the brine. Even if she never looks at me with anything but scorn after that._

He collapsed back on the disgustingly soft mattress, staring up at the white ceiling. Killing himself wasn't an option, even if it might snap the dark thread of the curse. He had sworn oaths, to Master and humanity as a whole. Even more importantly, he wasn't stupid enough to think Eresh wouldn't mourn him, however much he'd just hurt her. She might curse his name, but she'd also stare into the night sky and wonder where she'd gone wrong. Even worse if Master was foolish enough to resummon him, and the idiot started ranting about witches and monsters again—

_No!_ Beowulf punched his pillow a few times in a futile attempt to… he didn't know. Plump it up, or maybe just vent some steam. Cursing, he rolled over and tried to get comfortable. He was going to climb down that shore, night and wind be damned. Throw himself into the water, fight through the brine-wolves and face down Aglæca. Set the ghosts to rest once and for all.

Then he'd scrounge up cash somehow, enough to bring Eresh to a real riverbank instead of a fading echo or cheap simulation. Somewhere mild, so the water wouldn't overwhelm her starved senses. He'd have to coax her, of course, she'd worry about Master needing them—

( _Don't you dare walk away from me. Why should you have a future?)_

Beowulf shuddered, then closed his eyes and tried to grab hold of that phantom howl in the hopes that it would finally pull him under. But he couldn't conjure the black waters. All he could see was Eresh's body, broken on hard stone. Pale limbs cruelly torn, hair matted with blood, while her eyes—

( _I'll cleave her head in two and throw it to the serpents)_

"Goddamn it!"

Red filled his vision, followed him as he threw himself from the bed and hurled himself at the punching bag. Growling, he pummeled it mercilessly with his fists. Even after the chain came loose and leather shrieked and split, spilling _(guts_ ) stuffing everywhere, he picked it up and bashed it against the wall until exhaustion drained away the frenzy.

He didn't feel any better. Everything seemed to have drained away with his anger, leaving a hollow space inside. He shivered with cold.

Enough. He was going to that lake, _right fucking now_. Even if he had to beg favours to get there.

Rubbing his mouth, he forced down the pounding of his heart and tried to think. Medea was adept with sleep magic, but she was going to Salem with Master. Dantes would only laugh in his face. Maybe Paracelsus could whip up a drug to put him under?

But even as he turned the idea over in his head, he could feel his instincts sneer at it. No point. Even if the Caster did his best, it would fail when Beowulf needed it. He had to face this horror alone. _That's how it always was, in the end_.

Still, a little material help wasn't a bad idea. He opened the door to check that the hallway was empty, then sidled out.

Beowulf never got drunk after becoming king, as much as he enjoyed the taste of mead and ale. Someone had to stay alert in case shadows burst in through the gates. But tonight was an exception. Tonight, he was going to drink himself into a stupor.

If sleep wasn't coming for him, he'd take it by the throat. _Fuck moderation._

Head spinning from fatigue and dull fire, Beowulf stumbled halfway down the hall before he realized he was heading for the brewery.

_Fuck_ , he didn't deserve to go there. He didn't deserve to see Eresh, or even a token of her. Not until he'd finished this. Not until he could greet her with an open hand.

Turning on his heel, he walked towards the kitchen. He had to brush away a lot of curious gazes on his way, from Servants and staff alike, but luckily nobody accosted him. Not until he walked into the kitchen proper, and Boudica, wearing an apron and her red hair sensibly tied back, glanced up from the grill.

Usually the Rider left him to his own devices, as he was one of the more trustworthy Servants around the food stores. Not today, from the steely glint in her eye.

"Beowulf. We need to talk," she said, in the voice that had once commanded armies. "Stay right there until I'm done with these ribs."

It would have worked on most of the staff, and many of the meeker Servants. But Beowulf was a king in his own right. It would take more than words, however strongly delivered, to sway him.

Not that he couldn't play along. "Sure," he grunted, leaning against the counter. "Take your time."

As soon as she turned back to the sizzling meat, he yanked open the far cabinet. Three bottles of cooking brandy and one of rice wine sat inside. He scooped them all up and bolted.

Boudica's angry yell echoed in his ears as he hurried away, but that was fine. She wouldn't chase him while the grill was on. Hopefully he'd be deep under by the time she showed up to chew him out. He would explain everything once the problem was resolved, and take his punishment then.

And if it wasn't resolved, and he didn't return _… no, fuck that._ He wasn't going to die, he'd already decided that.

Now if only the pounding in his ears would stop.

Maybe the curse clung onto him tighter than Beowulf cared to think about, or maybe fate really did hate him. Either way, he'd barely turned the corner when he ran right into his Master. Ritsuka was looking a bit grim as she pointed something out to Mash on her tablet, but her attention immediately shifted when she caught sight of him. More specifically, the alcohol cradled in his arms.

"Beowulf," she said, her mouth a stern line. "I'm happy to see you out and about, but what are you doing?"

That was a lot firmer than she'd spoken to him in the past. Beowulf would have been offended by the tone, except he'd sort of earned it recently.

"Going back to my room, Master," he said. "Need to do some thinking."

"Right. With enough booze to knock Blackbeard out twice over."

A king never showed his discomfiture on his face, nevermind that he did feel a little sheepish. "Liquid courage. Gonna face some old ghosts."

Once again, that was technically true, but it left Beowulf's mouth scorching hot. His honour was going to be in shreds by the end of this.

He felt even worse when both Mash and Ritsuka visibly softened. Of course, his Master had accumulated a bevy of scars, both physical and mental. She understood the need to forget, if only for the space of a drink. And here he was, taking shameless advantage of her compassion.

Ritsuka sighed, unconsciously sliding closer to Mash. "Would you at least tell Eresh you're okay? She's worried sick."

Beowulf winced. He didn't need to be told that. A vision of her beautiful face, the red of her eyes shaded maroon with hurt and doubt, had been haunting him for the last three days. Tightening his grip on the bottles, he forced himself to meet his Master's gaze.

"Yeah. I promise I'll check in with her." _After I've taken care of things._

Again he'd managed something that wasn't strictly a lie in wording, even if it definitely was in spirit. If things weren't so dire, he might dread Moriarity's approving smile.

Ritsuka had gotten sharper, _damn her._ Rather than appeased by his pledge, she looked more suspicious than ever.

"Maybe I should bring you along to Salem, after all. I'll ask Shakespeare if he can write in a role for you."

Beowulf threw up his hands. "Nah, Master. I'd make a terrible actor. Fumble all my lines, and you'd need a lot of costuming to cover up the scars." He offered the young magus a crooked smile. "I'll sit this one out, and join you for the next one."

"Look," began Ritsuka, briefly massaging her temples. "Servants aren't weapons, and it'll be a cold day in hell before I start treating you guys that way. But I _do_ need to be able to rely on you." Her hard stare made Beowulf proud of her, even as his stomach dropped. "That whole fiasco with the lamia was bad enough, but hiding away is even worse."

"I'm not hiding," he muttered, hating how petulant he sounded to his own ears. Especially because it wasn't a lie, when it came to Master. Not directly, at least.

The magus placed her hands on her hips. "At least tell me what's wrong. Then I can try to plan around it."

"Yeah, okay," said Beowulf after a pause, inclining his head. "When you get back from the mission, we'll talk. But right now, you have a village to save."

Ritsuka opened her mouth to argue when Mash tapped her on the shoulder. "He's right. We're due back in the briefing room, Senpai."

She hesitated a shade longer, then huffed. "Fine. But I'm holding you to that, Beowulf. We're going to have a long talk. Even if I have to get Nightingale and Hercules to strap you down for it."

Lips pressed tight, Beowulf watched them leave towards the briefing room. Then he rebalanced the booze in his grip and stomped towards his room. This _had_ to work, because he wasn't sure how much more his pride could take. Or his schedule, given how many tongue-lashings he'd accumulated.

Tongue-lashings, it turned out, were the least of his worries. He'd almost made it back to his quarters when his instincts screamed, every nerve in his body snapping taunt. Dropping the bottles to shatter on the floor, he threw himself to one side.

Searing white light exploded above him. The hallway shook with the aftershock, then with the shriek of alarms. Fragments of burning hot glass and metal rained down on his bare shoulders as he picked himself up and summoned his swords.

_An enemy attack, here in Chaldea?_ But the aura pressing down on him was familiar, even if it burned with the incandescence of a star instead of cold with shadows.

Whirling around, he found Ishtar descending on him, bristling with wrath. Energy crackled along the massive bow that floated beside her, snapped and danced on her fingers.

"I warned you!" she screamed over the blare of the sirens. Her pupils were almost slits in the furious golden suns of her eyes. "Did you enjoy wrapping my sister around your finger, then cutting her loose?"

"I didn't—"

"Shut up and take your retribution!"

Blue light flared at the tip of her index, then exploded towards him in a barrage of shining bullets. He deflected the first shot on Naegling's blade, and dodged the second. The third slammed into his shoulder with such force he almost staggered.

Burning pain flooded his brain, threatening to pull him into the red mist of madness. For once, Beowulf fought it off instead of embracing it. This wasn't the time or place for battle, not when he needed all his strength for the nightmare ahead.

"Ishtar, stop!" he growled, sidestepping another blast that showered him with shards of wall panel. "Let me explain!"

"You can explain with your smouldering corpse!"

A dagger shone jewel-bright in her hand as she flew at him with terrifying speed. Beowulf parried it on Hrunting's edge, then twisted around to avoid a flying kick. Thankfully he was a shade faster than Ishtar—

_(just like her sister_ )

The thought made his heart clench. Only for a split second, but long enough for Ishtar's uppercut to smash his chin. Spitting blood, he forced her back at the point of his swords. He needed the space to catch his breath, and figure out the best way to strike her down while avoiding that oversized bow—

_Archer. Bow_. Ishtar's savage grin cut through the haze of fatigue. Space was the _last thing_ he needed. His body tensed to dodge, but fearsome energy already flared along the goddess' arm.

"Got you!" she called in triumph.

Just as the blast concentrated on her fingertip, something moved underneath Ishtar in a blur of black and red. Ereshkigal shoved the flat of her spear under Ishtar's hand, knocking it upwards. Brilliant light struck the ceiling with a deafening boom, ripping away panels and melting support beams and circuitry.

Baring her teeth, Ishtar lined up another shot, only to have Ereshkigal seize her wrist."That's _enough_ , sister!"

Beowulf caught himself on the wall, staring helplessly at the blonde goddess' back. She was staring down her sibling, pinning her down just as her shadows blocked Maana from surging forward. _Shielding_ him.

"You can't be serious!" growled Ishtar, trying in vain to yank her hand back. "You're going to let him insult you like this?"

"He's _mine_ , Ishtar. I won't see any harm come to him, except by my own hand."

Even with her back turned to him, the power in her voice sent a shiver down Beowulf's spine. Just days ago, it would have made him swell with pride and more than a little excitement. Now it made his heart twist in his ribcage.

"Your hand is _my_ hand." Ishtar stubbornly jabbed a finger at her sister. "If you're worried about falling into old habits, then let me handle this!"

"I said _no_ ," said Ereshkigal, stern as stone.

Ishtar bent towards her sister, whispering something low while glaring at Beowulf. His Sumerian was still shaky, but he could make out the words _mortals_ and _gratitude_ , and the name Ninsun. Ereshkigal snarled something in return, before glancing her shoulder at Beowulf.

' _Go_ ', she mouthed, and gave him a sad smile. But he just stood there, unable to tear his gaze from the wet sheen in her eyes.

Ishtar took advantage of their hesitation to lunge at him. She dragged Eresh along a few feet on pure momentum before the elder goddess wrestled her down.

Beowulf straightened out of his combat stance and clapped a hand over the painful burn on his shoulder. He didn't really have the right to say it, but…

"Thanks, Eresh," he whispered. "I'll make it up to you, I swear it."

If she heard him, she gave no indication of it, too busy pinning a cursing Ishtar to the wall. The commotion had already attracted a cautious audience of staff and a few Servants. If Beowulf wanted to use the chance his goddess had granted him, there was no time to waste.

Swift steps carried Beowulf through his door and over the tattered remains of the punching bag. His shoulder smarted in violet streaks of pain, adrenaline still burned in his veins. He didn't even have the alcohol he'd wanted to dull his mind.

His head scarcely hit the pillow before he tumbled into a deep sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

_The night presses in on Beowulf, so dark that it tears away even his sharpened sight. He has to find his way down the rocky path by touch and instinct, shuffling his feet over crumbling earth while the fingers of one hand trace the cliff wall. It feels like something might bite them off at any moment._

_His other hand clenches around Hrunting's hilt, lest the gale rip it from his grasp. All the other times in this nightmare terrain, the wind had howled against him. Now it pushes at his back like eager hands, down towards the waves rolling and splashing below. By legend and temperament, Beowulf was a hunter and warrior. But here, shivering in the cold and the dark, he feels like prey._

Swallow it down, _he admonishes himself, even as part of the trail slides out from under him._ Fear won't help now. Not when you're already stuck in.

_But try as he might, no hunter's thrill rises in his veins to replace it. Just dread, prickling as cold over his skin as the freezing spray from the lake. The waves are closer now, and underneath the wind he can hear_ them. _Hisses and scaly bodies churning the watery surface. The brine wolves and sea monsters that haunt Aglæca's lair, all waiting for him._

" _Mighty Beowulf, hero of Heorot." A masculine voice echoes in the darkness to his left, where there was only empty air and a fall to the jagged rocks below. It holds the same mocking edge that Beowulf remembers from those scarred days. "Not so tough now, are you? What happened to boasting about the sea serpents you killed?"_

" _Hello, Unferth," says Beowulf amiably. "Come to see me off this time as well?"_

" _Someone should see off a damned man. Even if he's an arrogant prick."_

_Beowulf barks a laugh. "Glad you still hold me in such high regard."_

_The sullen huff he receives pulls Beowulf's mouth into a smile. Hrothgar's champion may despise him, but the scorn dripping from that unseen mouth feels human, with none of the snake-venom of Aglaeca's shades. He doesn't know if it's really the man's ghost, or just a figment of his imagination. Either way, it's a comfort._

_He scrapes a little further down the path when Unferth sighs. "You never did come back to Heorot. All those friendship oaths and parting gifts… you never meant them."_

" _I did." Beowulf gnaws his lip. "I always wanted to see these lands in the sun, and drink mead with your people again. But my own kinsmen needed a king."_

_And a king always followed his duty rather than his heart, whatever the red-cloaked conqueror claimed. Isk— no, the name slips through his fingers like loose pages._

" _Tch. You always were a fool."_

_They're almost at the water's edge. The night's still black as the inside of a wolf's gullet, but he can hear the waves sucking greedily at rocks; feel the icy droplets on his face. Eyes blink open all around him, pale lamps in the gloom. Their pallid lights glint off wet scales and needle fangs._

_The beasts won't attack, though. Not yet. That will come later, in the rotting caverns on the other side. When their savage mistress sets them on him to avenge her kin._

" _Regrets?" says Unferth's voice at his ear._

" _Grendel needed killing," mutters Beowulf. "Being plagued by men's voices doesn't mean you can turn around and slaughter them. Even without my father's debt to Hrothgar, I would have come." He takes a deep breath, swallowing icy air that burns in his chest. "But I do regret making a trophy of him."_

" _Getting sentimental for monsters now?" A sneer in the darkness. "You've gone soft."_

" _Not sentiment. It's respect for blood." Unseen brambles tangle up Beowulf's foot. A few sharp kicks shake them loose again. "Grendel was a fiend, but… someone loved him, however savage. For that alone, I should have held back."_

" _That's a new perspective for you," says Unferth quietly. "Not sure I like it."_

_Beowulf grins, more to himself than his companion. "Too bad, 'cause I'm holding to it. I learned it from death herself."_

" _Just as well you're feeling close to death. You're going to die down there, Geatling." His once-rival's words scratch scarlet with spite. "You may have won last time, but it's different now. This is her realm, built from her grudge. And she's waited a long time for this."_

" _That's fine. Let her spend that grudge on me." Beowulf puffs out a breath. "This curse has chained us both long enough. It ends tonight."_

" _Bold words. Let's see you hold to them once she's got you in her claws."_

_The wind sputters and dies away. No need for it anymore, now that he's standing on the last rock before open water. The roll and crash of waves feels unnaturally loud in its wake._

_Beowulf runs his thumb over Hrunting's jagged hilt. "Unferth. When you gave me this blade, to wield against Agl_ _æ_ _ca in your stead… did you know about the curse?"_

_There's a long silence before the ghost speaks. "Would it have mattered?"_

" _No," admits Beowulf. "I guess not."_

" _And that's why they made you king." The words are so quiet they almost fade into the black before he catches them._

_Beowulf doesn't feel like a king. The cold fingers of dread squeezing his heart, the hisses and guttural moans of his executioners, make him feel like a boy again. But there's no blanket to throw over his head against this nightmare._

" _Unferth?" He swallows hard as cold water sloshes over his bare foot. "Do you remember that song Halfdane sang, the night we returned from the moor? About the battle of the Eadgils?" He tugs at the chain of his cuff. "Do you think you could…"_

_But the other is gone. It's just him in the darkness._

Alone.

_Gripping Hrunting, he draws in his shoulders and sucks down air._

There's no room for fear once you've decided to face the dark. Just swallow it whole.

_He chokes on it anyway, stumbling back from the edge. It's only the vision of red eyes and stars that brings him back. He wants to see that smile again. Hell, he'll settle for the burn of her spears impaling his chest, that's how badly he wants to see her._

_Beowulf plunges into the freezing water._

* * *

"Then _sploosh_! The barrel knocked that Taira archer right into the lake!"

Ereshkigal folded her hands around her cup as Ushiwakamaru mimed the blow that foiled a fearsome dockside ambush. She had barely touched her tea, and now it was stone cold.

Not that the Rider was bad company, even if she'd invited herself unbidden to the goddess' garden tea with Nitocris. Admittedly Ereshkigal needed to have a delicate conversation with the other queen, but Ushiwakamaru wasn't really an obstacle to that.

"- cleared the way for Nasu no Yoichi and his men to make a run for the ship. Shingen and I covered their retreat against a dozen _ashigaru_ —"

And it was nice to see her irrepressible cheer as she swept her katana for emphasis, especially after her grim fate in Babylonia. That had been a different incarnation, and arguably Gorgon's fault more than Ereshkigal's, but the memory of Berserker Ushiwakamaru's malicious grin still haunted her.

Still, Ereshkigal wished it was someone else sitting across from her, among the glittering dragonflies. Even if she also felt like skewering the man to the nearest pillar.

"Such high platforms on a ship? My kingdom's triremes sat much closer to the water," interjected Nitocris.

With a little start, Ereshkigal realized the Caster was openly leaning towards Ushiwakamaru now, eyes bright. When had that happened?

Yet despite her best intentions, she found herself drifting from the conversation again. As angry as she was with Beowulf—and rightly so!—it came with a worm of doubt gnawing at her heart.

Because this was her fault too, wasn't it? She should have been satisfied walking with Master, and Ishtar and the others. Basking in the warmth she had longed for down in Kur, of friends and family.

Ereshkigal was the greedy one, despite what Beowulf always claimed. She'd wanted more, wanted to be held like a precious thing. Like she was someone's world, instead of the shadow lurking to rip it away. Beowulf had offered it, with that infuriatingly charming grin of his, and she'd reached for it, and now…

She grimaced, her grip tightening on the china. She should have known it would end in disaster. Death did not play favourites, and so the Queen of Kur could not know love. And yet she _did_ love Beowulf, flaws and all. She couldn't imagine the ache in her heart being so painful otherwise, or the taste in her mouth so bitter.

The slap of Ushiwakamaru's hand on the table rattled the saucers and jolted Ereshkigal from her thoughts. "So of course _that's_ when Benkei finally showed up, the great oaf."

"I'm sure Benkei did his best," said Nitocris, swirling the red wine in her glass.

Ushikawamaru shook her head." You can't be soft with retainers, or they pick up slovenly habits. And a sloppy retainer is a disgrace to their lord." She finally sat down, the better to reach for the sake bottle. "How would it look if I tripped over my own blade in front of Master's enemies?"

"O—of course!" blurted Nitocris, crossing her arms defensively. "I know that! A pharaoh always demands the best from her servants!"

"But a little leeway can be helpful," said Ereshkigal, staring into her cup. "If your servants are terrified of mistakes, they may not act at all. Or worse, hide things from you."

Was that what she had done wrong? Had she somehow frightened Beowulf away? That seemed unlikely. The man positively revelled in her strength, and seemed to enjoy nothing more than pitting himself against it. Nor had her shadows driven him away, or the scent of death, or even the frigid cold of her hand when he took it in his own.

"Yes, exactly!" said Nitocris, shooting her a grateful smile. "A queen needs to balance praise and punishment."

And yet, the look on the Berserker's face that day in the winter castle, and the sharp edge in his voice from the other side of the door… Beowulf was afraid. If not of Ereshkigal herself, then of something to do with her.

That was why she needed to talk to Nitocris. Now if only she could compose herself enough to steer the discussion.

"A warrior serves regardless of praise," said Ushiwakamaru. Then her serious face split into a smile. "But it's nice getting a pat on the head, too."

The Rider happily accepted one from Nitocris, before the pharaoh caught herself and hurriedly drew her hand back. Ereshkigal sympathized with the Caster. It was hard, maintaining the image of a dignified queen while constantly worrying over your subjects and duties ( _though Ereshkigal was sure she did a better job at hiding her doubts. Definitely so_.)

"A—ahem!" Nitocris lifted her chin. "While tales of valour are worthy entertainment for a pharaoh, that's not what… I mean, I believe you had something on your mind, Lady Ereshkigal?"

"Yes, I…I'd like your advice. As a fellow ruler of an underworld, one more… acquainted with mortals. Since you lived among them."

The words were difficult to force out, with the Queen of Kur seated in the back of her mind decrying them as _weak_. But Ereshkigal wanted _her_ Beowulf back, and communication with Master and others had helped bridge the gap with Ishtar. Maybe it would work here, too. She had to try. Some things were more important than pride.

The thought struck her as foreign, and more than a little frightening. Ereshkigal of Kur had lived on pride, breathed in it as a balm against loneliness and envy. And here she was, willingly throwing it away.

"Yes, of course!" smiled Nitocris, her ears perking up. "It's flattering to be asked, when you have so much more experience… ahh, that is…" She assumed a more dignified air. "Then this pharaoh shall shed light upon your troubles!"

Ereshkigal was sure she never sounded like that, nevermind the wink that Ushiwamakaru sent her way. Forcing herself to stop fiddling with her cup, she shifted to fully face Nitocris.

"Your mirror of darkness opens a doorway between the living and the dead. Has anything..." Ereshkigal paused, thinking over her wording before the Caster's encouraging nod made her decide on clarity over delicacy. "Has anything ever leaked through without your knowledge? Perhaps a stray ghost, or some wisp of shadow…"

"No. My mirror has always answered my call, and no other." Nitocris' smile was gentle. "You're worried about your aura?"

"I… yes. Although I do not open such a… direct gateway, I carry the shadows of the netherworld. My nature has, ah, been the cause of harm to others in the past."

She couldn't stop herself from glancing at Ushiwakamaru, wondering if she remembered the unfortunate priestess of Uruk; the one that meant to summon Ishtar, only to be struck dead the moment Ereshkigal incarnated in turn. But the Rider's eyes held only curiosity and a touch of sympathy, with no trace of recognition. She was on her own.

Steeling herself, Ereshkigal took the plunge. "I worry that I'm draining Beowulf."

Neither Nitocris nor Ushiwakamaru looked surprised to hear the Berserker's name, which might have both embarrassed and delighted Ereshkigal if not for the anxiety pressing down on her.

"Beowulf has been looking perhaps a bit worse for wear," began Nitocris delicately.

Ushiwakamaru snorted over her sake cup. "He looks like wild horses dragged him over Mount Hiei."

Nitocris shot her a look before turning back to Ereshkigal. "But I don't think your aura is the cause. While it reflects your divine authority, it's not strong enough to harm anyone." She absently fingered the stem of her glass. "We rub shoulders with humans everyday here in Chaldea. They would suffer any harmful impact long before a Servant did."

"Servants never get tired unless they run out of mana. And you're not draining any mana." Ushiwakamaru boldly reached over to pat Ereshkigal's head, earning herself a surprised cry ( _definitely not a squeak)_. "See? You feel just fine!"

Ereshkigal scowled at her, but without any real heat. While such a familiar gesture would be intolerable from most, from the Rider it was a sincere display of affection. She would have still preferred rougher fingers however, tugging her ribbons loose and...

Noticing the raised eyebrows directed her way, she coughed. "Thank you, Nitocris. That's good to know."

If not a relief, exactly. Because if Ereshkigal's taint was the cause of Beowulf's troubles, then there was a solution—keep her distance, however much it broke her heart. Now she was back in uncharted waters, desperate to keep her beloved from drowning but with no land in sight.

Nitocris seemed to realize it. Her eyes were soft as she took a small sip of wine. "Perhaps if I know more about what ails him, I could be of more help. Has he told you anything?"

"Nothing," sighed Ereshkigal. "And I think… that may be my fault. For not insisting, when he told me everything was okay." She slumped in her chair, decorum forgotten in her turmoil. "I'm not blind. I could see his exhaustion, the shadow in his eyes."

"You thought he would tell you, once he was ready," said Nitocris.

"Yes. And he was still pleasant company," said Ereshkigal.

Understatement was easier than admitting how her heart skipped a beat at the way his fatigue seemed to fall away at the sight of her, his whole face brightening. She still had _some_ dignity left.

"I know it can be difficult for a warrior to admit weakness. So I resolved to be patient and let him come to me in his own time." Her nails pressed hard into the lacquered wood of the table. "I see now it was a mistake."

"Stoicism is good for a warrior, but there are limits," frowned Ushiwakamaru. "Especially when it ends up troubling your lord. You need to reprimand him."

"I can't even see him!" said Ereshkigal, her hands clenching the table with enough force to make it groan. "He's cut me off entirely—won't even open the door for me! The nerve of the man!"

Anger was a good defense against hurt and worry, or so her vessel whispered. Unfortunately it didn't seem to be working.

"That's rather odd," said Nitocris as she quietly tugged the teaset back from the table edge. "Beowulf may be a Berserker, but he's far and away the most… well, stable of them."

"So something must have changed recently," said Ushiwakamaru decisively, in the tone of one who knows everything. "Something to make him run like a coward."

"Do not presume to call him one," snapped Ereshkigal. "Not until we get to the bottom of this." Ereshkigal was protective of what she considered hers, and as displeased as she was with Beowulf's recent conduct, he still qualified. "And yes. He was suffering before, but he pulled away in earnest after the winter castle. After I mentioned my dream."

She gave the two an abbreviated summary of the conversation she'd had with Beowulf that day, minus some unnecessary and embarrassing details. She didn't regret the warmth of his arms, even now, but it still felt undignified to say it aloud.

"A dark lake, under a shadowed house," murmured Nitocris thoughtfully before sipping her wine.

"Beowulf must have had the same dream, I'm sure of it," said Ereshkigal. "We could figure it out together, if he would just talk to me! But no, the stubborn fool. Even if I cornered him now, he'd only stay silent."

"So force it out of him. A sword's the only way to deal with stubborn retainers," said Ushiwakamaru. "Here, I'll lend you mine!"

Ereshkigal waved away the proffered weapon. "No! That is… "

Even if Beowulf accepted her monstrous side, she still hated showing it to him. And dragging answers out by force felt too much like her old approach, like black chains swinging from stone pillars.

"... it's below a queen's dignity to press where she's not wanted," she finally settled on.

Ushiwakamaru opened her mouth to reply, only to snap it shut when a peal of aggressively silver laughter rang in the air. Ereshkigal pivoted around to see Medb pluck one of Marie's prize roses and tuck it behind an ear, thorns and all.

"On the contrary!" smirked the Rider as she approached, ignoring the twitch of Ushiwakamaru's fingers on her sword hilt. "It's below a queen's dignity _not_ to demand everything she wants. Including answers."

"How long have you been listening in?" growled the samurai.

"Long enough," shrugged Medb before turning to Ereshkigal. "You want to know what's on Beowulf's mind? Put on your best lingerie and knock down his door. Ride it out of him," she purred, her smile pure sex. "Much more fun than sulking around here, you'll find."

"You really think…?" said Ereshkigal, swept up by that smile and the memory of corded muscles under her hands, before catching herself. Blushing, she shook her head. "No, I couldn't."

_Ishtar would have already done it_ , whispered a treacherous voice in the back of her mind. _And if it brings you closer again..._

"Mmm, you certainly could," said Medb, her eyes lighting up in approval. "That's a good look on your face."

Ereshkigal's cheeks burned hotter, even as Nitocris spread her hands. "That's enough, Queen of Connacht," she said, and it took a practiced ear to hear the nervous twist under the aristocratic tone. "Did you have any other insight to offer?"

"She has everything she needs," said Medb with a cheerful tap of her riding crop against her palm. "Just don't take no for an answer!" Laughing, she pulled away again. "Heh, all this has inspired me. Where _is_ that Cu…?"

Ushiwakamaru made a sour face at her back, while Nitocris' gaze was somewhere between irritation and admiration.

"Well," said the Caster at last, "She isn't entirely wrong. I think we all agree a more forceful approach is needed. He should at least look you in the eye when he refuses to explain himself."

Ereshkigal couldn't really argue that. Not when her hands itched with the need to see him.

"Scratch the nonsense about lingerie, but yeah," agreed Ushiwakamaru. "Hey, why don't I come with you? We can do it right now!"

"Ahh, that's alright," said Ereshkigal as she rose from her seat. "I don't need an escort for this."

_I'm used to doing things myself_.

But the Rider only bounced up next to her. "I'll see you to the hall, at least. Come on, let's go!"

Her enthusiasm was contagious, so much that Ereshkigal relented. And it _was_ high time Beowulf explained himself, even if she risked his resentment by insisting on it. Ereshkigal valued his warmth, more than any star or flower. But she valued his well-being even more.

Ignoring the scabbard she could spot around the hall corner—it seemed Ushiwakamaru took her duties seriously, even when self-imposed—Ereshkigal paused in front of Beowulf's door. This time, she wasn't leaving until she got her answer.

Squaring her shoulders, she knocked firmly on the door. "Beowulf. This has gone on long enough. I'm going to help you, whether you like it or not. Open the door."

Silence, as she had expected. A grim smile touched her lips. "Last warning."

She counted out a generous ten seconds, then tore the door down. Steel crumpled like paper under her fingertips. There was a vicious satisfaction in seeing that barrier come down.

Lifting her chin to its most imperious angle, she strode in. "Listen here, mor—!"

The sight of Beowulf passed out on the bed, lips tinted blue, knocked the breath from her. She stood stunned in the doorway, legs threatening to buckle while her stomach spasmed.

"Beowulf!"

The name, torn from her throat, broke her paralysis and sent her rushing towards him. She knelt by his bed and pressed a hand to his cheek, desperate to feel his living warmth. He was icy cold under her touch. Frost bit her fingers when they jittered over his brow, and she looked down to see a few white crystals patterned on his skin.

_Oh no, no no no._ The world fell away, leaving only the deathly pallor of those crystals on his face. _Please no, don't let him be..._ Panic clawed at her chest, buzzed in her ears as she fought to breath.

"Beowulf, no! Come on, wake up!" She jostled his shoulder. Gently at first, then more roughly when he remained limp. Fear lodged in her throat and spilled up as anger. "Don't you dare! Get up, Beowulf! Don't you _dare_ do this to me!"

Nothing, not even a twitch of his eyelid. Beowulf's mouth hung slack, she couldn't feel any rise in his chest and then her heart stopped completely because she couldn't feel his _soul_ , there was no soul and _he's dead and I killed him, just like I killed that priestess—_

With a supreme effort of will, Ereshkigal swallowed down the tide of guilt and horror. She could feel it churning in her breast, threatening to spill over at any moment, but she was a queen and a guardian. She couldn't lose her head, no matter how bad the situation looked.

_Even if that felt impossible, when his hand was even colder than hers and he might never wake up. With the Age of Gods faded away, she would never find him no matter how much she searched the remnants of Kur. Never again see that crooked grin, never feel the circle of his arms or hear his rough whisper in her ear—_

Drawing in a deep breath to steady her trembling shoulders, Ereshkigal closed her eyes. She let her senses float from her vessel, swirling in the gray miasma between life and death. When she reached towards Beowulf's prone form, she could see neither the yellow flame of a living soul, nor the cooler blue of a dead one.

_Beowulf was_ gone _, vanished from her grasp, from her life—_

Ereshkigal wrestled the panic down again, breathing hard in the otherworldly haze. If Beowulf was truly dead, he would already have dissolved into mana dust. Leaving behind bodies to mourn was a privilege reserved for humans, not Servants.

Once her heart calmed a fraction, she made herself look again. This time, a thin flicker of spiritual energy caught her eye. A shivering yellow line of soul energy, burning in the gloom.

Distantly she thought she heard her name called. She impatiently dismissed it, running her fingers along the soul line. It anchored in Beowulf's breast then ran through the darkest part of miasma, a fragile thread in the gloom. Not towards Kur, but towards the wilder domains beyond—

" _Lady Ereshkigal! Pull yourself together!"_

The voice yanked Ereshkigal's mind roughly back into her vessel. The abrupt return hit her body like a hammer blow, sending her reeling and wheezing. Small but strong hands helped her upright.

"There you are," said Ushiwakamaru, offering her a small smile. "That's a relief. I was dreading having to tell Master that I lost not one, but two of her warriors under my watch."

"Ah… my apologies," said Ereshkigal, once her head stopped swimming and she could stand again. "I did not mean to worry you."

"It's fine, it's fine!" said the samurai, before flicking her eyes towards the Berserker. "Which is more than I can say for Beowulf. The frost sits on him colder than a yuki-onna's tits. What happened to him?"

"I'm not sure," murmured Ereshkigal, brushing her hand tenderly over the man's face. Even if he couldn't feel it, she still felt the urge to touch him, prove to herself that he wasn't yet entirely gone from her. "But whatever the cause, he's no longer in Chaldea."

"What are you talking about?" protested Ushiwakamaru, tilting her scabbard towards him. "He's right there!"

"Only the physical shell. The spiritual core of his Saint Graph, the seat of his essence… it's gone adrift." Ereshkigal struggled to keep her voice steady despite the painful churning in her stomach. Panic wasn't going to help now, and she was being looked to for guidance.

"Adrift?" Ushiwakamaru scratched off a bit of ice off Beowulf's cheek and lifted it up for inspection.

"That is the easiest way of explaining it," she said, noting the Rider's deepening frown. "There are many realms beyond that of waking life. Many ways for a soul to lose its way."

_Many fates worse than Kur, where Ereshkigal could at least help her charges sleep through the chill of the afterlife. That was one of the reasons she had diligently swept her borders in search of the lost._

"So that Beowulf has abandoned his post." The indignant puff of Ushiwakamaru's cheeks didn't quite hide the concern in her eyes. "Then let's go fetch the vagrant back! I'll make him properly offer you his head in repentance."

"A bit of a waste, after going through all that effort to rescue him. But some discipline is definitely in order, yes."

Ereshkigal made herself smile. It felt weak on her face, but the Rider brightened at the sight of it.

"That's the spirit!" grinned Ushiwakamaru before leaping for the door. "I'll grab Nitocris and the other Casters. We'll have this sorted out in no time, you'll see."

_No time._ Ereshkigal stared at the little pulses running along the soul line. They seemed to grow fainter with each beat of her heart. Her hands clenched into fists.

"Lady Ereshkigal?"

"Yes, thank you," she managed, wrenching her eyes back to Ushiwamakaru. "Perhaps Medusa as well, and…" she hesitated, then grit her teeth, "... Nightingale."

"Got it!"

Ereshkigal's smile dissolved the moment the samurai's footsteps subsided. While it was a bit of a relief not to have to maintain the facade, the room felt darker without the other's sunny optimism.

Shoulders slumping, she wrapped Beowulf's fingers around her own. "You couldn't have picked a worse time," she said reproachfully. "Master away on a mission, Merlin nowhere to be found." Her mouth twisted. "You really are impossible, Beowulf."

No doubt Ushiwakamaru was already reporting the situation to Da Vinci, but she and Holmes would have their hands full monitoring Ritsuka. That was as it should be, for she was a living human with the fate of the world still on her shoulders. For all his valour, Beowulf was one ghost among many. If he died, he could always be resummoned.

_A different incarnation. A stranger that will see only the monster in me. And this time, he might not grow to like the shadow along with the light._

Her grip tightened on his fingers, hard enough to make the bones squeak. Huffing, she made herself let go and stared into the far corner.

She blinked. The shadows there looked a little _too_ black. The kind you only got when someone was standing in them.

_Ah_.

Rising to her feet, she turned to fully face them. "I know you're there, Count."

Acrid smoke wafted from the Avenger's cigarette as he faded in. He took a long drag, enough to make her teeth grind in impatience, before cold eyes flicked her way.

"Another descent into Hell. How fitting that death and vengeance alike are here to bear witness."

Ereshkigal had rarely crossed paths with Dantès before, but in that moment she hated him. She hated the indifferent set of his shoulders, the open mockery of his smile. But if there was any chance he might help…

"Beowulf is in a dream, isn't he?" she said, more statement than question. "Trapped on the shore of that lake. Could you find it?"

"There are as many dreams as there are bricks in the Château d'If," said Dantès, tapping his ash out on the floor. "All of them a prison of the mind."

"But you know the one," she pressed, crossing her arms. "You can pick out its thread, even better than I can."

"A dream of malice," he smirked, eyes flaring gold in the shadows. "Hah! Of course I can."

Ereshkigal took an eager step towards him, pride abandoned for the hope fluttering in her chest. "Then you can pull him out! You've helped Master escape her dreams before, and a Servant shouldn't be so different from a human."

"I could," Dantès allowed. But the malicious curve of his smile made it clear that he wouldn't.

Hope turned to fury. "Why? He hasn't done anything to earn this," she spat, and felt steel materialize in her palm "Even if you only care for Master—"

Dantès' lip lifted in a sneer. "How foolish. I hate everything—"

Ereshkigal bulldozed over his interruption. She didn't have time for posturing. "-you're letting her lose one of her protectors! Put a stop to it! Do your duty as a Servant, if nothing else!"

The hem of his cloak burst into black fire as he rounded on her. "Do not speak of things you do not understand!" he hissed. "My only duty is to vengeance!"

"Then why are you here, if it's none of your concern?" snapped Ereshkigal, her grip tightening on Meslamtaea. "Did you come to laugh at us?"

"Hmph!" Dantès' cloak swirled as he turned his back on her. The insolence would have made Ereshkigal lunge at him, had he not chosen that moment to speak. "I've come to see vengeance done, of course." He spared a glance over his shoulder at the prone Berserker. "Long before he wore a crown, that fool committed a grievous crime. Now he suffers his punishment at the hands of the one he wronged."

That brought Ereshkigal to a halt. Her first instinct was to deny the accusation. The Beowulf she knew was kind and warm, patient to a fault, loyal to his charges—

_You do your best to break your people out of it._ His voice rumbled at her from that day in the garden. _Even become a monster. If that's that they need_.

There was another Beowulf too, she knew. The one she'd pushed out of mind when he didn't suit what she wanted from him. The man who callously tore off someone's head just to throw it at her feet and make her rage. The warrior who delighted in violence, not just duels but the blood and pain of real battle. The king who ruthlessly crushed other nations so his people could have their spoils.

She didn't want to hear about that Beowulf. But the ice crackling over his brow told her that she had no choice.

"A goddess must deliver impartial judgment, of course," she said, returning to Beowulf's side to stare down at the rugged lines of his face. "Tell me then, dark angel. What did he do?"

Dantès' reply was full of spite. "If you've read his legend, you already know. Or was that not relevant to your judgment?"

Her hands balled into fists. "Tell me."

The Count's cloak rustled in the stillness of the room, then his voice lifted in recital.

" _Ond his modor þa gyt,_

_gifre ond galgmod, gegan wolde_

_sorhfulne sið, sunu deað wrecan."_

The whispering of the cages under her cloak provided the meaning, even if the words themselves were foreign to Ereshkigal.

"The mother of Grendel, come to avenge her son." Ereshkigal's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. Chaldea is full of warriors and killers. If every one of their victims sought vengeance, these hallways would be brimming with ghosts." Her hand stroked Beowulf's shaggy blond hair and brushed off the stray flecks of ice. "Why _him_?"

"All of humanity is a record of evil," shrugged Dantès, taking another puff of that infernal cigarette. "Turn his pages, if you want to know how far he plunged."

Ereshkigal grimaced. "If this matter is truly tied to Beowulf's legend, then… the damage may reach further than his Saint Graph." The realization fell from her mouth like knives, however desperately she tried to hold it in. "Perhaps corrupt even his record in the Throne."

She whirled on the Avenger again, reaching for his cloak.

"Dantès! We can't stand by and let this happen."

The cloth turned to black fire the moment her fingers brushed against it. She recoiled in shock.

"Do you think I care?" said the Count, voice dark as smoke. "When Edmond Dantès died, _I_ pursued vengeance for him! I will not stand in the way of Aglaeca's. Hah! I only hope it doesn't bore me."

Bristling, Ereshkigal reached for Urtur's cage. She'd barely grabbed the cold metal when Dantès disappeared in a burst of midnight flames, leaving only the echoes of his mad laughter.

Frustration tore through Ereshkigal. For a wild moment, she thought about chasing Dantès down the halls of Chaldea and dragging him back by the coat. Reluctantly, she let the idea go. She didn't have the time to force his cooperation.

Instead she looked down at Beowulf's pale face. "Why didn't you tell me?" she sighed. "I shared my troubles with you. Why wouldn't you trust me with yours?"

Her fingers traced the angry red of his scars, now faded blue with cold.

"Is it because of the lamia? I forgave you for that, and so did she. I already knew your past was soaked in blood. You don't need to hide from me."

_(You're careful when you want to be)_

And yet here they were. Beowulf had managed to throw himself into one of the few cracks in reality where Ereshkigal was powerless, all in the name of "being fair" to her. He'd provoked her ire, then smoothed it over with commiseration, and _communication_ and _warmth_ and all the things she'd craved. Only to turn around and… and do something so _stupid!_

Anger flared in her breast and bared her teeth. "Impossible man, _infuriating_ man! This time I really _am_ going to scar you up, so you don't forget who you belong to!"

She pushed Beowulf's bulk fully on one side of the bed, then lay down next to him. His skin burned cold everywhere she touched him. It was a cruel contrast to the heat of his former embrace.

No choice but to grin and bear it. There was no way of telling how far the soul line would lead her, or how much of her vessel would be dragged along. Best to give it what little protection she could.

Closing her eyes, Ereshkigal let herself drift again, slipping through the blurred lines that separated the lands of the living from the dead.

_For dreams are a little death, little bits of soul held hostage til waking._

The gray veil enveloped her from all sides, heavier than any mundane fog. She grasped the soul line. It felt wispy in her hand, with none of the solidity of the souls under her command. Once she crossed fully into the void, it would be her only anchor against the primordial chaos between realities.

Even if it would also lead her straight into a nightmare.

_This is a bad idea._ Ereshkigal could hear the iron whisper of the Queen of Kur, the one that had patiently plotted for three years to sink Uruk into the underworld. _Do not be hasty. Wait for Ritsuka to return, so you can bring the full resources of Chaldea to bear on the problem._

But Ereshkigal's blood was up, and the soul line felt distressingly weak. She didn't know how long it might last.

And Beowulf was _hers_. Gods were possessive to a fault, and Ereshkigal was no exception. Waiting on others to assert her rights was intolerable.

"I'm going to slap—no, _punch_ you so hard your head will spin," she sternly told the Berserker.

_Then maybe kiss him stupid, then punch him all over again. I'll figure it out when I have him back in hand._

Clutching the thread like a lifeline, she set out on her dark journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ond his modor þa gyt,  
> gifre ond galgmod, gegan wolde  
> sorhfulne sið, sunu deað wrecan."
> 
> For anyone interested, here's a translation of the Old English, with credit to Francis B. Gummere:
> 
> "And his mother now,  
> gloomy and grim, would go that quest  
> of sorrow, the death of her son to avenge."


	7. Chapter 7

The sea fiends attacked Beowulf the moment he hauled himself out of the water.

He'd barely staggered up the rock slope of the cavern, grip tight on Hrunting, when the surrounding pools erupted in a thrashing tide of scales and fins. Serpents and brine-wolves boiled from the churning waters, their goggle eyes shining green under the phosphorescent algae. Gaping jaws bristled with needle fangs, too long and wickedly sharp to fit in their sunken skulls.

A ferocious grin split Beowulf's face. Here, _finally_ , was a target for all the frustration boiling inside him. Something he could rip and destroy, instead of passively enduring.

"Let's fucking go!" he bellowed, and flew to meet them.

They lunged at him from all sides; tusks to skewer him, teeth to tear chunks from his flesh, tentacles to drag him down and drown him. Beowulf fought them off with fist and sword, roaring as the crimson frenzy surged through him. Savagely he cleaved through the enemy's scaled hides and kicked the carcasses back in their faces. Hrunting greedily drank the blood flying from each severed limb until it shone a lethal crimson.

Beowulf's wild laughter echoed off the rock walls. "Drop dead, you bastards!"

An arm covered in razor-sharp fins swung for his head. Beowulf ducked under it and cut it loose at the joint, his red blade cutting through iron-tough flesh like butter. Ignoring the beast's agonzied shriek, he twisted around to parry a brine-wolf's claws. A flash of crimson, then the scaly head rolled to the ground.

"Hah… hah…!" he panted over the corpse, staring down the remaining beasts. "Killed far worse than you."

Beowulf was pushing them back. Bleeding from a dozen wounds where his agility hadn't been enough to fully shield him from fangs and spines, but he was still forcing back the hungry tide. Each kill poured more courage into Beowulf's veins, dispelling the dread that had been chaining him down.

_He could do this. They had all fallen to his blade, the last time around. He'd kill them all this time, too._

He sensed rather than heard the serpent springing behind him. He whirled around to slash it, but it was fast. Too fast, shooting past Hrunting's guard with lightning speed. Beowulf dropped the sword and thrust his wrists up. The fangs broke on the steel cuffs; with a shrill hiss, the serpent recoiled.

Then it struck again, using its massive head as a battering ram aimed directly at his chest. But for all the viciousness of its attack, pain slowed it down. Beowulf dodged, then caught the reptile by the neck and throttled it. The serpent bucked furiously in his grip, growls choked by the crushing pressure on its windpipe. Venom dripped from its foaming jaws to splatter in his face, followed by ichor as the beast weakened. Finally it sagged and went limp.

Beowulf threw the serpent to the floor and gave it a vicious kick to the head. He had too much experience with low cunning to let down his guard until he was sure it was dead. When another blow failed to make it twitch, he finally let his shoulders relax.

"... hah… pretty good. Your mistress can be… hah… proud of you."

Gulping down air to refuel his burning muscles, he reached to pick up Hrunting—

Steel claws slammed into his back, throwing him off his feet and straight into the cavern wall. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through his whole body. His wounds throbbed as he staggered to his feet and turned around.

"There you are," rasped the nightmare, in the wet gurgle of things left to rot underground. "Murderer. _Butcher_."

She loomed over him, as powerfully built as he remembered. Hair black as night flowed down over a patchwork armor of metal plates and sea serpent hide. The wicked claws of her gauntlets glinted in the green light as she flexed them, _snickety-snick_. Gimlet eyes bored into him from a face as hard as if carved from the cavern's stone.

_There is no room for fear. Swallow it whole._

"Aglæca," says Beowulf, stiffly inclining his head. "You should be at rest among the dead."

"As should you," she sneered. "But the Throne spat you back out, to kill and maim again."

She stalked towards him. Beowulf moved back in measured steps, until he could sense the cave wall behind him.

_Good_. He couldn't afford to have anything sneaking up on him, not when Aglæca's whole frame quivered with restrained violence. Violence that could erupt at any moment.

"That alone, I might have borne," growled Aglæca. "But when you tried to _live_ again, to find joy you don't deserve—!"

Her claws raked along the rock as she advanced, tearing away chunks in her rage.

"I won't accept it! How _dare_ you brew ale and laugh, when my son—my child, my life— is _dead_!"

She punctuated her roar by throwing a lump of stone at Beowulf's head. He nimbly stepped to the side; it bounced off the wall to crash heavily between them.

"Not sorry for that," he rumbled, raising his fists. "Grendel killed all those men. More than that, he _ate_ them. He had to be stopped."

"Those dogs built their mead hall on _our_ land!" Aglæca was almost upon him now, her face a rictus of fury. "But killing us to steal it wasn't enough for you, _no_. You had to humiliate us, too!"

The blow came down hard, aimed directly for Beowulf's face. He barely caught her wrist with both his hands, groaning under the crushing force. Shining blades whispered less than an inch from his eyes. Aglæca had been tough, but he didn't remember her being _this_ strong.

Her enraged screams thundered in his ears and set his skull rattling. "I brought Grendel here to rest in the earth. But even dead, you wouldn't let him be!"

More pressure bore down on him. The back of his legs were pressed against the cave wall, his arms straining to keep her claws from sinking those final inches into him.

"Did you enjoy parading _my son_ 's head around your hall?"

" _You_ killed Æschere—!" he hissed, staring defiantly into the black pits of her eyes. Anger bubbled in his veins, flooded him with power—

Abruptly she pulled away. Caught off guard, Beowulf's momentum carried him forward into a brutal kick. It caught him in the ribs and sent him flying again.

"Laughing at him! Jeering at him! My son, _my son_!"

Beowulf rolled with the impact, slipping on algae before landing in a hollow among the rocks. The rough stone tore away the skin of his knees and forearms, but it was far better than broken bones.

Spitting blood, he hauled himself to himself to his feet again. He should have been able to avoid those claws and grapple her. He had once before, in another life. But Aglæca wasn't just stronger, she was faster too. As if this nightmare filled her to the brim with power, while sapping it from his bones.

The Noble Phantasm that should have burned in his soul felt far away, distant as the moon. The realization brought a black wave of despair before he angrily shrugged it off.

_Endure it, just fucking endure! No backing out, not when you've come this far._

She lunged for him again. Beowulf threw himself to the side, and the claws whistled behind him. Rather than delivering a counterblow, he sped around her and snatched up Hrunting. Whirling around, he raised it just in time to parry another strike. Steel screeched on steel before they pulled apart again.

"Aglæca," he said, pivoting on his heel to face her as she circled him. "I don't owe you wergild. We were at war." A quick feint, an exchange of strikes. "But the insult I did to you… first with his arm, then his head… that was wrong. I didn't need to do that."

"But you _did_!" she spat, her eyes glittering with malice.

"Yeah." Bile burned in his stomach, not all of it from internal wounds. "The men needed proof of your defeat, and even though your gauntlet would have been enough..." The deadly dance slowed for a few steps as Aglæca's glare drilled into him. He swallowed past the sour taste in his mouth. "I… I wanted to hear them laugh, so I could believe it was over. I wanted them to praise me, so I didn't feel alone."

"I don't care why, butcher." Her lip lifted, showing a hint of fang. Small and white, but more frightening in their hatred than the mindless savagery of the sea fiends. "Only that you pay your debt to my kin."

"Yeah, I get it." Beowulf spat on the ground, tasting blood in his mouth. "Death is serious business, and you had a duty to avenge your kin. But I had a duty to put him down. Both our causes were righteous that day."

She scoffed, but said nothing. Only glared at him with eyes full of accusation and—yes, that was suffering behind the black hatred. It didn't change that she was determined to see him dead, or that he was equally determined to walk away the victor.

He flashed her a humourless grin. "I guess an apology isn't going to cut it."

She returned a scowl. "No. I'm going to paint this cave red with your entrails."

"Thought so." He raised his sword and pointed it right between her eyes. "Then come on! Let's beat each other up until we're both satis—"

She charged him before he could finish. Beowulf raised Hrunting to parry. Silver claws cut a savage arc through the air before crashing into his crimson blade.

Hrunting shattered under the blow.

_Just like you knew it would._

The claws cut cruelly into Beowulf's shoulder and pulled a pained hiss from his mouth. Hrunting's sacrifice had robbed the strike of its lethal momentum, but it still _hurt_.

"There _is_ no satisfaction, murderer!" roared Aglæca. "Not while the hatred burns in my guts. You think a few blows will quell it?"

Another blow descended, fast as a serpent and aimed for his head. He dodged it, only for the witch's follow-up strike to catch him square in the chest. Pain bloomed sharp and bright, even as the force sent him staggering back. Through some miracle, he managed to keep his feet.

"Was hoping it would, yeah," he rumbled, wiping a knuckle over his mouth.

As expected, it came away red. Aglæca's malicious snigger filled him with anger, but also hope—it meant she was distracted, if only for a few precious seconds. His eyes swept the cavern floor.

_Where's the giant's sword? It was here last time_.

"Suffer!" spat the witch as she advanced on him again, flicking his blood off her claws. "Suffer for as long as my hatred burns. Forever."

_Nothing_. There was nothing on the floor or walls. No savior blade from ancient times, no torch to burn or mirror to shatter. Only hard stone and dripping ichor.

Without a weapon, he couldn't hope to parry her attacks. He needed room to maneuver, even if it meant the wide open space of the cavern. He would just have to accept the risk of something catching him in the back while he faced the witch.

Desperately he flexed his wrist, hoping against hope that Naegling would answer his call. _Nothing, nothing_. His hand remained empty.

Aglæca's eyes glinted with malicious glee as she followed him into the open cave, step for step. The cruelty in her smirk could have cut iron. "Where is your sword now, butcher? Your noble armor? Your thralls and banners?" She waved a dripping gauntlet at the gore-streaked walls. "You're all alone. Nobody will save you."

"I don't need any help—"

"Just like nobody saved you from the dragon," she plowed over him. Her voice was almost a purr, low and raspy. "The one my hatred sent you."

"Wha—"

( _another vision, venomous blood pouring from the dying maw above him. It burns like icy fire on his skin, then seeps through to consume him from the inside. It freezes in his veins, melts his bones to slurry and everything is red and pain, so much_ pain _—)_

The pain exploded into reality when Aglæca struck him in the ribcage again, harder than ever. Beowulf's choked scream was drowned under the sickening crack of splintering bone. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself back to his feet anyway.

_I'm going to see Eresh again._ His jaw tightened. _I won't die here. Even if I have to rip victory from her with my bare hands._

"Pretty… hah… good," he panted, raising his fists. "Now try that again."

Aglæca roared and lunged for him. Beowulf's answering howl echoed in the dark.

* * *

Ereshkigal limped and stumbled through the shadows between realms. Each hollow tendril pulled at her face and hair, snagged at her cloak. She clutched the shining thread of Beowulf's soul like a lifeline as she followed it down, down, through dead leaves and swirling colours and the graves of old stars. The whispering of her cages dimmed, then gradually went silent. Even faithful Urtur faded to a thin white spark, barely visible between the bars.

The journey took Ereshkigal several lifetimes. It took no time at all. Here, sun and moon meant nothing, and winter and summer less.

Each step brought — not fear, a goddess would never fear. Trepidation, then. For sleep was risky for any deity, even when they slept deep in their sanctuaries. And Ereshkigal had never been so far removed from her Authority, or the safety of Kur. She was entirely adrift in the void, anchored only by hope and a flickering candle. If it were to go out…

Fear shivered down her spine, all the way to her feet. Gnawing her bottom lip, she pulled her hood further down and pressed on.

_I want to see him again._

A familiar lament. She had heard thousands upon thousands of similar pleas, whispered from the cages hung in Kur's gloom. Men torn away from their wives by war, mothers crying for lost children, friends weeping over sickbeds. The song of the dead, echoing among the mountains of the afterlife. Ereshkigal had thought she understood it, and tried to comfort them.

She hadn't understood at all. Not until this moment, when her own throat swelled with it.

_Death cannot play favourites._

The shadows thickened. She could sense strange shapes lurking underneath, changing and moving in the astral wind. The stuff that dreams were made of. She shuddered and tightened her grip on the soul line.

How many desperate prayers had she heard, how many fatal bargains offered? A sister offering her life for her brother's, a devoted servant for his king's. Merciless Ereshkigal rejected them all, in line with the edicts that governed her Authority.

_For here what is, is what must be_.

Not this time. Ereshkigal wouldn't accept that Beowulf was gone, not if there was the smallest chance of winning him back. Even if it made a hypocrite of her.

The miasma grew heavier and more humid, clinging to her body with each step. She could hear waves crashing in the distance. Impossible to tell how near or far, with the shadows muffling their sound.

_No matter where you've gone, I'll find you. Wait for me, Beowulf._

The ground shifted like sand underneath her feet, then bled away into black water. It was freezing cold even to Ereshkigal's bleak senses. All too reminiscent of the desolate shores of the Abyss, where she had once sought oblivion. The memory constricted around her chest until she could scarcely breath, her body instinctively jerking back towards solid ground. Back to the upper world, and the warmth and safety of Chaldea.

_It won't feel warm. Not without him there._

That was a selfish thought, but Ereshkigal left it. She could think about morals and sacrifices some other time. Right now, she needed a beacon to drive herself forward.

The yellow thread of the soul line led directly into that dark sea, fading below the inky waves until it was swallowed up entirely. Gritting her teeth, Ereshkigal followed it down. One step, and the icy water was up to her calf. Another, and now it sucked at her waist.

Soon the sea closed over her head, tumbling her in its dark wet embrace. It blurred her eyes and pulled hard at her essence, like it sought to strip her entirely. Only the shards of Ereshkigal's divinity let her withstand the assault, keep some sense of her identity in the void ink threatening to wash it away.

Walking against that wall of water took every inch of strength and will Ereshkigal could muster. Step by painful step, she forced her way through the underwater mud clinging to her feet. Then it gave way entirely, and she had no choice but to swim.

She struggled for what felt like hours, but may have been mere minutes. Time had no meaning in these realms. Then the waters abruptly parted before her, folding away like a paper screen.

Blinking, she found herself standing in a great cavern, an underworld carved from dream-stuff. Unlike Kur, with its distant black mountains and open deserts, this land was closed-in, claustrophobic in its green darkness. It was murky and wet, dripping suffering and violence from every crack and crag.

_Turn back_. Every intuition, every instinct screamed at Ereshkigal to turn back, while she still could.

She pressed on anyway, following the soul line down the narrowing of the cavern's throat. A little distance on, the rock face gave way to a great entrance. Its arch was carved into a beast's snarling mouth. Algae dripped from the stone fangs, echoing with her heartbeat.

Ereshkigal's head felt curiously light as she approached the shadow of the arch. She raised her fingers to massage her temples, then frowned when they found no metal, only hair.

_My crown…!_

Inhaling sharply, she moved her hands with purpose, raking them through blonde tresses. Nothing. Her star-pointed crown, symbol of her Authority as regent of Kur, was gone.

Heart racing, she reached under her cloak. There was no comforting weight of cages, only empty shadows. Even Meslamtaea's blade, when she summoned it to hand, was dull instead of shining with captured sun.

Understanding twisted in Ereshkigal's gut. She was the interloper in this dream realm, uncalled for and unwelcome. Her authority and powers would be forfeit the moment she crossed the threshold.

_How fitting that the crown would vanish first_ , she thought ruefully. _The crown formed from the raiments I stripped from Ishtar during her descent to Kur._

Continuing forward would be the height of arrogance. Ishtar had paid for hers with her treasures and her life. What terrible toll awaited Ereshkigal on the other side?

The soul line pulsed weakly in her grasp. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the archway. It was a human face now, stone eyes wide with terror, mouth locked in a scream.

_This is your last chance to turn back._

She had granted Ishtar the benefit of seven gates. Seven chances to change her mind, to repent of her audacity. Here, there was only a single threshold. One irrevocable decision, forward or back. It was far less mercy than Ereshkigal had shown, even at her cruellest.

Dread crept along Ereshkigal's skin, pulled at her with sickly hands. Closing her eyes, she thought of Beowulf's grin, the warmth of his hands resting on hers. The brush of his muscled shoulder against hers as they walked side by side.

A beacon to drive her forward.

_I know it's selfish and irresponsible. I know it will end in blood and tears. I still want to see him again._ Her grip tightened on both spear and soul line. _No, more than that. I'm going to bring him home. Even if Chaldea is only a fleeting moment, a bubble in the sea of time. Even if it can't last, I want him there with me._

She stepped through the arch, into the deepest part of the shadow. There was an unpleasant tingle as she passed, a faint prickling of needles over her skin, but nothing more. A surprise—she had expected a flare of agony, or a strong drain on her power. Somehow, this was worse.

_This realm already held you in its power._

Setting her jaw, she followed the tunnel. After a few minutes of picking her way over glowing algae and ducking under low rocks, she heard distant sounds. The scraping of scales on stone, and voices raised in anger.

She hurried.

* * *

_Strong_. She was so damned strong.

Beowulf's muscles burned with strain as he grappled with Aglæca, arms locked and mouths snarling. The scales of her armor dug painfully into his hip, the smell of sea salt and rot choked his nostrils. The crushing weight was relentless, the full brunt of a mountain bearing down on him.

_I won't lose_.

But he was going to lose if this kept going. Exhaustion was setting in, his biceps throbbing with ache. He couldn't stop a pained groan from slipping out.

Aglæca grinned into his face, her searing breath washing over him. "When did you get so puny, little man? Where is the strength that killed my Grendel?"

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to shut out her voice and concentrate on her limbs. She was pushing down as hard as ever, but her dark glee had loosened the precision of her grip.

_Maybe… no, no time to hesitate._

Drawing up the last of his reserves, Beowulf threw all his weight against her left side. Pain flared in his shoulder, sharp and bright. Snarling through it, he pushed harder against the scaled armor of her flank. He felt a wave of triumph when she stumbled back, hissing in surprise.

They circled around each other again, each panting harshly for breath. The pain in his shoulder intensified as he walked, little jolts running up and down his arm. Glancing down, he found it hanging awkwardly.

_Dislocated_. He tilted his head at Aglæca. "You mind?"

The witch's eyes widened, then she barked out a humourless laugh. "Go ahead. It won't save you." Her sharp teeth glimmered in the gloom. "You're only prolonging your agony."

Watching her carefully in case she sprung an attack, Beowulf wrenched his arm back into its socket. Stars burst in his vision as pain flared anew, enough to make another man's legs buckle. Beowulf swayed with it, then straightened up. Rolling his shoulders hurt like hell, but they moved like they should. It would have to do.

"Thanks," he grunted, looking up at his enemy. "Feeling any better?"

"No," she growled. She was moving again, looking for openings now that the moment of false mercy had passed. "Not until I have you broken in pieces, begging for me to end you."

"Then you're gonna be disappointed." Wiping the blood and foam from his mouth, he pivoted with his enemy. "I'm going back to her."

"To the queen of death? You're even more of a fool than I thought," sneered Aglæca. "What can an ugly brute like you offer her?" She pounded her gauntlets together. "A plaything, if even that. She'll forget all about you once I've crushed you here."

He raised his fists in a silent taunt, one she charged into. They grappled in a deadly burst, snarling like beasts. Blood dripped from their lips and noses when they pulled apart again.

"You're… hah… you're wrong," gasped Beowulf through the pounding in his head. "You don't understand her at all. She remembers everything."

"If you th—"

"Everything!" he roared, and punched her in the face. It felt like hitting stone; the shock sent nasty tremors up his arm. He shrugged it off and drove his other fist into her stomach. "Every bit of warmth! Every step in the gardens, every stupid story I tell her!"

Her claws whipped over his head, forcing him back. His eyes didn't leave hers, only hardened as he drew himself up.

"She's gone so long without," rasped Beowulf. "That's why I'm not gonna die here, however much you hate my guts!" Another clash, fist against gauntlet. "Without fail, I'll return to her!"

Then the gauntlet fell away as Aglæca abruptly disengaged. This time, Beowulf reigned in his momentum and stepped back instead of stumbling after her.

"You'll nev..." he began, then stopped when he saw the witch's face. A mask of fury, bared teeth and savage brow, but underneath….

"It's so," she muttered. It echoed in the green darkness. "You _do_ love her. How disgusting." Her black lips twisted in rage and sorrow. "That's why you can still smile, isn't it? Because even if I rend you to pieces, you know she walks free under the moonlight."

"That doesn't matter," spat Beowulf against the sudden dread welling in his chest. "Your grudge is against me, Aglæca!"

"While my son never will again! It's not fair, not fair!" she snarled, as if she hadn't heard him. "This vengeance…" Her claws dug into her own forearms, drawing red beads of blood. "It isn't enough! Not until you ache from grief, like me."

"Aglæca!"

He lunged at her. She caught his fist in her gauntlets, then wrenched it down towards the ground. Gasping with pain, he followed after. Her foot stomped viciously into his back, flattening him on the hard rock.

"But that will solve itself, won't it?" she said above him, malice dripping from every word to splatter in his ears. "If she's what you say, then she'll come for you."

"She won't," Beowulf snarled. "She can't. I'm right here, I'm the one you want, so fight me!"

He tried to haul himself up, only for Aglæca's foot to press him back down. There was a sickening crack, and he knew she'd broken another rib. His howl of pain rang in the dark.

"She'll find a way," smirked Aglæca. "Even if this is _my_ dream, and death is powerless here. Danger won't mean anything to her when she comes to save you, or avenge you if she can't." The witch's words were almost cheerful, but her eyes were bitter. "That's what love is, isn't it?"

"No… don't you dare…" Bloody spit trailed from Beowulf's mouth as he raised his head. "Your fight's… guh…"

"This isn't a fight, worm. This is revenge." She pressed her foot down hard, enjoying his agonized groan, before stepping off. "Crawling in the slime suits you. Stay there while I prepare for her arrival."

Beowulf gulped down air. Each lungful sent blazing agony through his shattered ribs. But the thought of Aglæca's cruel claws on Eresh, ripping into his lover as she had in countless nightmares until everything was red, red, red…

Red as slaughter. Red as the fury filling his vision. Red as the fire blazing scorching through his pain to drag him to his feet.

"I'll _ruin_ her, but slowly. So you can watch," mused Aglæca, her back to him as she stalked towards… he couldn't tell and didn't care. "Tear off her pretty head. A fine trophy to hang here for the brine-wolves."

The world went red as Beowulf leapt at her. There was nothing but the enemy and the rage burning his blood, searing his brain.

The armor came off in fistfuls, exposing vulnerable flesh. His fists pummelled into that flesh, again and again. Distantly he felt pressure all along his back, smashing into his head and shoulders. Then it bled away in his frenzy, and the overpowering urge to hurt and kill.

His hand locked around something bony. On instinct, he growled and pulled with all his might, and the thing ripped loose. The shriek barely reached his ears.

When the enemy spun on him, he brought the thing down like a club. It caught his prey in the mouth and sent it tumbling back. He followed without hesitation, pummeling the prey with fist and club.

Pain flared under the red curtain of his frenzy. He pushed it aside and kept hitting, wet thumps and cracks. Shrieks and howls rang in his ears. Blood splattered across his arms and face. None of it mattered before the rage driving him on.

At last the enemy stopped moving. Or maybe it had stopped moving long ago, Beowulf couldn't tell. Not with the anger draining away, leaving nothing but raw pain in its wake.

He collapsed on top of Aglæca's broken body, every nerve and muscle screaming at him. The fierce pain in his back told him the witch's claws had torn more than his chest and arms. What little of his skin wasn't torn open was bruised yellow, already deepening to blue-black. A dark part of him whispered that he should be dead from this many wounds, or at least badly crippled.

But then, he'd always been the stubborn sort.

Hissing painfully with every breath, he forced himself to his feet and looked down at his fallen foe. Her eyes were glazed over, her tongue hanging slack from the red ruin of her mouth. He glanced further down her battered form, then flinched. What happened to her _arm…_?

The shape resting a few metres away answered that. A small bit of nausea rose in Beowulf's stomach, but he easily forced it down. He had a lot of practice.

"Hmph, that was a good fight. You were mighty to the last, Aglæca." He inclined his head to the corpse. "Let this be the end of it."

It was a long way up out of this hell, to shore and banner. To home, and the crimson eyes that waited for him there. Yet even through the pounding ache in his head, Beowulf felt there was something he still needed to do. If only he could think clearly!

Heaving a sigh, he found himself gingerly picking up the severed arm. He really should return it to Aglæca before he left. A token of… he wasn't sure what. Just that it felt right.

Before his horrified eyes, the arm jerked violently in his grip. He dropped it on instinct and recoiled with a loud curse. A sharp hiss cut through the air before fangs buried themselves in his leg.

"Tch, damn you!" Beowulf kicked the attacker away, then looked down to see a great coiling serpent. The very same he'd strangled not minutes ago.

_No, that can't be! It was dead, I made sure of it—_

A blow struck him from behind and sent him reeling. He caught himself and whirled around to find Aglæca stalking towards him. The flesh of her face was writhing, knitting itself back to unbroken gray. Almost casually, she snatched up her arm and placed it back on its stump. Red ribbons of flesh and blood hooked it and pulled tight.

"Did you think you could murder your way out of this too, butcher?" she chuckled darkly. "I already told you. This is _my_ land, _my_ vengeance. Death has no power here unless I will it so."

Hissing and scraping and clattering claws echoed all around them, as the sea fiends he'd cut down slowly rose on half-torn limbs.

"Then I'll tear you to pieces!" Beowulf snarled, even as black despair threatened to engulf him. "A thousand pieces, if that's what it takes! You and all your monsters!"

Aglæca laughed and fanned out her steel claws. "You were right, cur. You won't die here." Her mouth twisted in spite. "You'll keep suffering until I've had my fill."

She lashed out and caught Beowulf in a shoulder already ripped raw and bleeding. He howled as he fell to the ground. _Pain_ , so much _pain_ , devouring him from the inside out.

The shadow leaned over him. Bladed fingers descended to trace his jawline, almost tenderly, before digging into his chin to force his head up. Aglæca's pitch-dark eyes locked with his. "Then let us begin. I think I'll start with that ugly boasting tongue of yours."

Beowulf spat in her face.

"And take care of that nasty habit at the same time," Aglæca sneered as the bloody saliva ran down her cheek, then pressed the tip of a claw against his lips. The cold metal stung as it dug into ruined skin. "Just like s—"

She stopped; cocked her head to the side, like a dog hearing a whistle. Rather than a reprieve, it felt like he'd just been dropped from the gallows.

His intuition held mercilessly true when Aglæca straightened up.

"You're in luck, butcher," she grinned at him. "It seems we have a guest."


	8. Chapter 8

Desperately Ereshkigal thrust her spear through the scaled monstrosity, gritting her teeth as the cruel tentacles spasmed and jerked. She yanked back her weapon before they even went limp. There was no time to spare. Not when the distant yells had died away to an ominous silence.

Ichor gurgled at her feet as she stepped over the corpse, one of many. That same vile substance had splattered all over her cloak, long streaks of vile black over the burgundy fabric. Her dress too, and her hands and legs and hair.

A sorry state for a goddess, especially since she should have been able to easily walk through the monstrous horde when it poured in from the passage ahead. But to her dismay, leering beasts and moon-eyed serpents alike refused her commands and set on her with tooth and claw.

Without the souls and mana stored in her cages, Ereshkigal had been forced to fight them off one by one. Without the great crown, her wounds bled out on the ground. Without the sunburst of her spear, she had been forced to rely on strength and determination alone to cut down her foes as they swarmed her. All the while frantic with worry, knowing Beowulf was ahead and hoping against hope that she wasn't too late.

Pushing back her sweat-soaked bangs, she stumbled down the rough tunnel on legs weak from strain. She felt exhausted right down to her bones. Doubtless a weakness of her human vessel, stretched thin without the goddess core to bolster her.

_Is this how mortals feel all the time?_ She brushed aside a slimy strand of algae hanging across the passage. _Is this how Beowulf feels, at the end of our duels?_

_Beowulf_. The soul line shone against the dripping rock, but she didn't need it anymore. He was right up ahead, trapped by the ghosts of his past. She was here to force them loose.

Doubt crept up her spine and set her shivering. Her divine power had been clawed away, her limbs ached with fatigue and dripped blood with every step. The blood of a foolish goddess, staining the dark rocks of an underworld not her own.

Visions swam in her mind of her soul ripped from her body and chained to rot in lightless pools, flayed alive to be devoured endlessly by llahmasu, thrown in cauldrons to boil. She had seen all that and worse befall unfortunate spirits. To think she might be counted among them, and by her own arrogance…

_There is no room for fear once you're locked in._ A familiar voice, deep and beloved, rumbled in her mind. _Swallow it whole_.

Ereshkigal made her choice the moment she stepped past the archway of this realm. Now she needed to follow through. And even if she could somehow slip back through the shadows into the waking world, she knew she wouldn't. Not without Beowulf.

_We found so much light together. How could I abandon him now to cold and darkness?_

Drawing the tattered and stained remains of her cloak around her shoulders, Ereshkigal marched through the tunnel and emerged into a great cavern. The ceiling hung low, covered in more strands of phosphorescent flora. By the green light, she could make out more sea monsters, coiled around rocks and half-emerged from black pools. She tensed as she hurried by them, but they made no move to attack. Only stared at her with half-lidded eyes and lazily twisting tails.

"Beowulf!" she shouted. "I've come for you. Hold on a little longer."

Silence, but she wouldn't let that discourage her. Not when she'd come so far. Grip tightening on her spear, she plunged further into the gloom. Deeper in, the rock walls were broken and scored with the lines of fierce battle. Red blood, rather than ichor, stained her boots as she stepped over chunks of shattered stone. Stone, and slivers of sharp metal.

_His sword_.

"Beowulf!" she called again, more sharply to cover up the trill of panic. "Show yourself this instant!"

"Such a boor, refusing to answer a queen's call." The dark feminine voice echoed from around a craggy corner. Ereshkigal had never heard it before, wet and scraped raw, but it made her think of freezing wind over a dark lake. "Come and chastise him yourself."

Spear held tight, Ereshkigal whirled into the final chamber. Her heart caught violently in her throat at the sight that greeted her.

"Be—!"

Beowulf hung from the ceiling like a grotesque puppet, suspended in cords of wet red flesh. His body was clawed and battered almost beyond recognition, painted in crimson and yellowing purple. The proud head was bent low, the hair she'd delighted in stroking matted with blood. The hands that had clasped her tightly now trailed listlessly by his sides.

_He isn't dead._ The thought flared through the deafening pounding in her chest. _I won't allow it._

Ereshkigal rushed towards him, intent on cutting him loose. A dark figure moved in from the side to block her way. Stern black eyes stared back at her from a giantess' face, carved from the same stone as mountain peaks. Her arms folded defiantly across tattered armor as she watched Ereshkigal skid to a halt.

A goddess had an excellent memory for names, even strange ones heard in passing.

"Aglæca," she said, nodding to the giantess. "I have come to your realm seeking what is mine." She pointed her spear imperiously, as if she were in full command of her authority. "Release him at once."

From the gore dripping from the woman's clawed gauntlets, Ereskigal expected her to lash out in violence. To her astonishment, the giantess instead took a step back and bowed.

"You are welcome here, Lady Death," rasped Aglæca, waving a hand to encompass the cavern, "Though I ask that you not be too hasty in judgment. This night of reckoning has been long coming."

The unexpected deference drew Ereshkigal up to her full height, as the deathly queen stirred inside her. Whispered that this was _right_ , to sit in darkness and deliver her verdict, if only the stone would form a throne suited to her rank. The other part of her, the lonely woman that craved sunlight and warm laughter, insisted that there was nothing to hear. She was here for Beowulf, nothing more.

Torn between the competing demands of her duty and her heart, Ereshkigal compromised.

"This is a poor welcome you prepared," she said severely, with a pointed look at the slithering beasts.

The giantess offered her a smile that might have been placating if not for the sharp white teeth. "Your arrival was unexpected, my lady. I did not think someone of your stature would take an interest in such a wretch."

"Do not call him that in front of me!" snapped Ereshkigal, bristling with anger. "You dare to insult what is mine?"

She took a step forward, then caught a small movement in her peripheral vision. Looking up, she found that Beowulf's head was raised, his expression a complicated mix of relief and despair to match her own. Red eyes met hers, then he shook his head as firmly as weakness would allow.

The beasts crawled a little closer in from their vigil, but Aglæca motioned them down. A half smile split her stony lips. "Let us see if you still wish to claim him, once you know what he's done. As it falls under your domain - will you hear my grievance, Lady Death?"

_No!_ screamed the Ereshkigal of Chaldea; the one whose hand Master had caught on that fateful day; the one that loved a Berserker despite all his flaws. _What he's done is of no consequence to me. I absolutely will not leave my beloved to suffer in the dark!_

"Speak then," said Ereshkigal of Kur, head high and shoulders stiff.

Grinning, the giantess stalked over to the hanging Berserker. Her steel claws ghosted in the air before him, though she was careful not to touch. "This dog committed an unforgivable crime against my kin and I. His life is forfeit to me by right."

_The death of her son to avenge._

"It is in the nature of the Old Children to prey upon men," observed Ereshkigal, long practice allowing her to keep a dispassionate tone over the frantic beating of her heart, "And for men to kill them in turn. I see no injustice here."

"He didn't stop there!" hissed Aglæca, the cords of her neck rigid with hate. "It wasn't enough to take my Grendel's arm—" her hand briefly skimmed over a shoulder, "—he nailed it up to that hovel's rafters to mock me! Hanging right there in the middle, where the vermin could laugh at him! My son!"

Ereshkigal pinched her lips, imagining the jeering faces and the helpless rage of the woman pacing before her. The same rage and grief carried in the laments of countless other mothers, spinning restlessly in their cages despite Erehskigal's best efforts at comforting them.

She'd meant to look into Beowulf's legend, that day he'd first come to repay his debt in the gardens, before deciding to hear it from the man himself. But somehow, with all the stories Beowulf had shared about himself and his home, _that_ particular detail never came up.

Not quite a lie, but the taste was close enough to send a jolt of anger through the iron queen. It crashed and bobbed against the wall of her affection for the impossible man.

"Then his head!" raged the giantess."After my Grendel crawled home to me and _bled out_ on the step of this very cave… crying for me!"

Those pitiless eyes widened to dark pits of grief, her throat choking back a keening wail of grief and rage. Ereshkigal's heart shuddered with it, an echo of the heart-rending cries that so often accompanied prayers to her.

"Before I sought vengeance—as was my right— I buried my Grendel here, to rest in the earth's embrace," continued Aglæca thickly. Her steel claw jerked towards a mound of earth at the other end of the chamber, easily overlooked among the rock and pooling blood. "But when my battle ended in defeat, this _butcher_ dug him up _!"_

The gauntlet drove into the ceiling directly in front of Beowulf's face, showering him with bits of rock. He flinched, but said nothing.

"Desecrated his grave to make a trophy of his head! _Paraded_ it back to that hall, so they could spit on my son again."

Inhaling sharply, Ereshkigal looked up at the Berserker. "Is this true?"

The wreck of Beowulf averted its gaze before giving a sharp nod. Ereshkigal hardly needed it. The casual way he'd thrown the lamia's head at her was seared in her memory, however many card games and moonlit walks she buried it under.

Aglæca eagerly spread her hands before Ereshkigal. "See, Lady Death! Even he admits it. He spat in the face of your laws and made a mockery of the dead. Leave him to me."

A sacrilege against the dead, painful enough to haunt over centuries. An insult to all the care Ereshkigal took to preserve her people against dissolution in the abyssal winds. The Queen of Kur's eyes sparked gold.

Dark triumph radiated from the giantess' smirk. "Do you see, _hero_?" she leered at the battered Berserker. "Even your beloved death condemns you. Think of that while you—"

"Beowulf, you idiot!" interrupted Ereshkigal. Her eyes shaded back to an exasperated but warm crimson as she scowled up at him. "Is _that_ why you hid away from me?"

The cords binding the man's neck tightened, then snapped as he swung around to face her.

"Mostly… hah... to keep you out of this mess. Which you ungratefully threw away," rasped Beowulf reproachfully, before sagging in his bonds. "But… yeah. I thought if you knew 'bout Grendel, after that lamia… you'd never talk to me again." He swallowed down a mouthful of blood. "I got greedy."

"See?" cut in Aglæca angrily. "He tried to deceive you, Lady Death! Don't waste your mercy on him."

Ereshkigal ignored her in favour of massaging her temples. "You great lummox," she sighed. "That was all in the past, wasn't it? Long before I taught you better."

The red of his eyes gleamed a shade brighter, despite his wounds. "Then… you're not mad?"

Ereshkigal stamped her foot. "Of course I'm angry! I'm _furious_!" she declared. "Not only because you did such a thing, but because you let it fester between us! Whatever happened to shadowed heroes and shadowed goddesses?"

"Right, right… then does this count as another reminder?" he asked, and his shaky smile held some of its old insolence.

"You're not escaping that easily," she scolded him, despite the warm flutter in her chest. "The depth of wergild you owe me now would make Gilgamesh tremble to the tips of his armor."

"Lady Death," growled Aglæca from her side, puffing out her chest. "The debt is _mine_."

"You said it yourself," countered Ereshkigal with a flourish of her cloak. "Disrespect to the dead falls under _my_ domain. I alone shall set his repentance." She hefted her spear. "Now release him, Aglæca. I won't tell you again."

" _This_ is your choice, then," snarled the other, her mouth twisting in fury.

"It is."

Not a solitary choice, Ereshkigal knew then, but the culmination of a series of choices. One that began in a stolen time, when Master reached out to a monstrous witch, and that witch took her hand. Again the day Beowulf presented her with an insult, and she chose to walk away from the iron queen's demands. When she'd taken him to the singularity remnant, when she'd spoken to him in the brewery…

When she'd opened her heart to him, in spite of all her doubts and fears.

She looked up at Beowulf and smiled at him. "You're _mine_. I won't allow you to rot here a second longer when you belong at my—"

The sudden widening of his eyes warned her, even before the shout left his mouth.

Ereshkigal threw herself to the side just in time. The clawed gauntlet whistled through the air and slammed into the ground where the goddess stood less than a second earlier.

Pivoting around, she parried the next swipe on Melasmtaea's edge. With a shriek of grinding metal, the gauntlet's heavy blades buried themselves in the dulled steel. They left behind ugly notches when Aglæca savagely pulled them loose.

"No! You have _no right_!" howled the giantess. "Death takes all that are brought to her, _fere_ and men alike!"

Claws outstretched, she lunged at Ereshkigal. It was all the goddess could do to pivot up the great triangles of her spear to shield herself from the brutal onslaught. In her full power, she could have held firm, perhaps even shoved the enemy back. Now each attack sent her skidding back, teeth gritted in a pained grimace.

Aglaecea's eyes burned with anger, as merciless as her crushing blows. "That was the only justice we still had!" she screamed. "And you _dare_ take it from me?"

On instinct, one of Ereshkigal's hands slipped under her cloak for one of her cages, and the bolstering strength of her shadows. A mistake, made before her conscious mind could weigh in.

Too late. _Too bad_.

The blow came down like a hammer and wrenched the parrying spear aside. A followup strike smashed Ereshkigal into the cave wall. Panting, sides heaving with shock and despair, she looked up as a shadow fell over her. Aglæca's hulking form, cutting out even the feeble glow from the algae.

"So even death betrays me in the end," she snarled, her mouth set in a rictus of rage and sorrow. "In my own dream, no less."

Frantically Ereshkigal lunged for her weapon. Aglæca kicked it aside, then brought her foot down on the goddess' wrist. Bone squealed on bone, and she gasped in pain. Any more pressure and it would break.

Aglæca leaned down until it felt like Ereshkigal's entire vision was taken up by her serpent's eyes, black and lidless. "Since you love humans so much," spat the other, "you can die like one."

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Ereshkigal tried to wrench herself loose. There was no give, absolutely none. Aglæca brought her arm back to strike the lethal blow.

" _Fuck, no!"_

Then fell to the ground as a massive blade smashed down on her head.

—-

Every inch of Beowulf's skin felt like it was on fire. Worst of all where desperate strength ( _born of love, or madness, if there was even a difference)_ had yanked loose the guts stringing him up and sent him tumbling to the ground.

It didn't stop him from swinging Naegling again. The sword was more like an iron club than a blade, pulling hard at his muscles with every blow. A satisfying _thump_ sounded as he brought it crashing into Aglæca's side.

" _I won't let you!_ " he snarled, flecks of blood flying from his lips as he raised the sword again.

The witch raised her arm just in time to catch it on her gauntlet. The crushing force still sent her reeling.

"You!" she thundered. "Why won't you ever _stay down_?"

"No quarter, no surrender! Not when you tried to take _everything_ from me!"

Red light shone in his other hand, materializing into Hrunting. Both blades came crashing down, narrowly blocked on metal claws.

Sparks flew as he roared. " _You hurt my woman!"_

They clashed violently in the near darkness, in a lethal melee that had far more to do with raw strength than finesse. Beowulf's swords sang crimson as they parried blow after crushing blow. He would have stared down at them in wonder, if Aglæca had given him the merest inch.

_Why now, when they wouldn't come before—_

He blinked as realization set in, even as Aglæca's breath blew hot in his face.

_Because for the first time since this nightmare began, you forgot that they couldn't._

In his rage and despair over seeing Eresh pinioned by his old foe, his mind cast aside the fate that shackled him; called to his hand the very blade he'd only earned with Aglæca's death.

_Not possible. Not unless…_

His instincts snapped an instant before fangs flashed in the gloom. The sea fiends, come to their mistress' aid. Pinned down by the witch's claws, he could do nothing but brace himself as a set of slavering jaws closed in on him.

There was a whirl of silver, and those jaws locked on a steel blade. A deft movement from Ereshkigal's wrist cleaved the spear through the soft flesh of the serpent's mouth. She shook the dying beast off and thrust the weapon to block the brine-wolf leaping at her shoulder.

"I will hold your flank, monsterslayer," she said with a fierce smile, crimson eyes flashing. "So make me proud."

"You always say the sweetest things," rumbled Beowulf, grinning when her cheeks flushed pink despite the dire straits. Putting his back to hers, he raised his swords. "Alright then, you heard the lady! Come on!"

The sea fiends flew at them, and the world became a blur of steel and claws. Black ichor splashed before his eyes as scaled abominations fell, only for fresh ones to scurry over the wretched corpses. Even in the carnage, Beowulf could tell something was wrong with Ereshkigal beyond her missing crown. The fiends pushed through gaps in her defenses that he'd never seen in all their spars, her spear only cut instead of bursting through them.

"You alright?" he asked, unable to spare more breath with the witch's claws ferociously seeking an opening in Hrunting's guard.

"It's endless," groaned Ereshkigal as she impaled another brine-wolf. Gasping for breath in a small gap in the assault, she pressed up against him. "We're… hah… going to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers." A long ragged breath. "How did you ever manage last time?"

"There weren't so many," growled Beowulf.

Aglæca had retreated to nurse a particularly savage cut from Hrunting. A serpent took her place in the melee while the wound knitted over.

"I don't know how she…" He trailed off, then set his jaw. "She can't. She _doesn't_."

Growling in defiance, he thrust his sword at the serpent's head. It slashed through easily, sending the reptile flying back in a spray of blood. Although many beasts reared up in its place, there were noticeably less than before.

"This isn't just _your_ dream, is it?" He locked eyes with Aglæca. "It's mine, too. That's why Unferth came with me down the path. He was never yours." Spines sunk deep into his shoulder. Baring his teeth, he wrenched the beast off. "Unferth, Naegling…!"

"You're wrong, butcher," sneered the witch. "This _is_ my realm, born of my cry for vengeance." Her claws scraped together, a harsh grinding in the darkness. "Unless you wanted to hand yourself to me? Then by all means, cur."

"No… I think you're right," said Ereshkigal, her sweet voice carrying over the frantic roars of the beasts. "She riddled you with fear so you wouldn't realize it, but… she could bring you to the nightmare, but she couldn't hold you. Not until she drew me in too, and you panicked."

"I did not—!" growled Beowulf, risking a look back in her direction. "Okay. Maybe a little."

"If this is your realm, as much as hers…" murmured Ereshkigal, then grinned in triumph. "Beowulf. Do you trust me?"

"Is this really the time?" groaned Beowulf under a new assault from Aglæca, claws sparking violently against his swords.

The witch might be bloodied, but Beowulf himself was in very rough shape. Knowing this was a shared nightmare had not erased any of the grievous injuries she'd scored him with earlier.

"Beowulf!" snapped the goddess.

"Yeah, of course!" It was hard to concentrate, with those pitch-black eyes boring into his over a mouth snarling with hatred. "With my life, I told you that… gah!"

"Then acknowledge my power and my right. Recognize the authority of death in this realm."

Beowulf's head spun. Aglæca's strikes came more heavily as the witch threw every ounce of power behind them. It made it damn hard to think. Did Eresh mean something formal, some grand speech to fate? He wasn't any good at that.

But he was still a king.

_It would do._

"Yeah," he grinned, regretting that it was Aglæca's expression he was stuck seeing rather than his woman's. "Everything that is Ereshkigal— goddess, human, witch, I don't care!—is welcome here! Give her all due honour, and her— _our_ —will be done!"

Nothing physically changed. The rock walls of the cavern stayed solid, the fiends hissed as loudly as ever. But there was a shift in the world around him, like reality had suddenly spun on its axis. His stomach lurched, his mind buzzed. For a brief moment, he shivered as invisible gears ground in some unfathomable machine.

Aglæca bared her teeth, shoulders tight. For the first time since she'd mocked him from the lakeshore, wearing his Master's skin, Beowulf saw fear in her ancient eyes.

Blue light flared in the darkness behind him, drowning out the dim green of the algae. Moments later, shadows erupted from the ground to engulf the sea fiends. Spectral skulls of beasts long dead clashed with deep sea horrors. The cave shook with their violent struggles.

The black crown gleamed on Ereshkigal's hair when she strode forward to stand by him. A symbol of death and conquest, but he could have kissed it. Though kissing _her,_ in her fierce splendor, sounded even better.

"Enough, Aglæca!" commanded Ereshkigal in a voice of iron. "This underworld falls under my rule now. Submit and stand aside, or suffer my wrath."

The Queen of Kur stood before them, in all her dark glory. She seemed worlds away from the shy woman who lingered by riverbanks under the stars.

Beowulf knew they were the same. Stunningly beautiful, in all her forms. _His_ , for as long as their breathes whispered together.

Aglæca shared none of that sentiment. Baring her teeth, she stared down Ereshkigal with the open loathing born of disappointment. "Never. Even if I must grasp it alone, I will have vengeance." Her brow darkened under the shadows cast by soul fire. "How else could I ever face him again?"

"Aglæca, you—" began Beowulf, when the witch threw up her hands.

" _Wyrmcynnes fela_ , spirits of the dispossessed!" Her voice brimmed with ancient power, sizzled like ozone in his ears. "You who once ruled the sky and sea, pushed into the dark by the race of men! Heed my summons and share my vengeance!"

A great rumbling filled the chamber, the bellow of a thousand dragons on the wing. Then monsters streamed from the tunnel entrance, from every crack in the ground. Beowulf's eyes darted over them as he braced himself to meet the horde. He saw not only the scaled fiends and sharp-snouted beasts remembered from far seas, but all manner of snapping jaws and baleful eyes, webbed wings and shining auras. A living tide of malice made flesh, too much for even a god's blade to quell.

But it was the earth itself that responded to Ereshkigal's call when she planted the shining point of Meslamtaea into the trembling rock.

"Here is the wrath of the dead, the anger of the earth!"

_Blue flame engulfed the cavern as gleaming cages burst from shadows. The shaking and heaving of the ground intensified to a great roar. Cracks opened, filled with a blinding red glow._

New strength poured into Beowulf as he watched the radiance flare, closing his wounds and filling his lungs with sizzling mana. The gratitude of Kur for its long-suffering mistress, spread to all those she took under her charge.

"Appear, o scorching shrine! _**Kur Ki Gal Irkalla!"**_

Crimson lightning shot from the cracks and tore through the darkness in great spears. Those beasts that weren't impaled outright found themselves caught in the bone-rattling blast. They were hurled up and dashed against the rocky ceiling in bursts of blood and chitin.

All except Aglæca herself. Though cruelly battered and torn by the heel of Kur, she reared up in its fiery wake. Powerful muscles constricted, set to lunge at an Ereshkigal still pulling her spear from the rubble.

"Not like this," hissed the witch between broken teeth, her eyes glittering. "Not while you're still watching, my darling..."

Her claws raised to strike.

Freed from fear and injuries, Beowulf was faster. His swords vanished into golden dust as he charged with all the ferocity of his namesake. Power surged through him, turning muscles to steel and his eyes blazing red.

_A whirlwind of punches and kicks. The joy of fist on flesh. The power to crush mountains with a single blow._

"This is it, Aglæca!" bellowed Beowulf as he fell on her in a blur of savage motion. "I'll send ya to see your son!"

He attacked the witch in a savage flurry of blows, too fast for the naked eye. The steel of her gauntlets cracked under his fist. The remnants of her armor ripped away under his kicks.

" _ **Grendel Buster!"**_ he roared, forcing her back in a raging storm.

Right into the point of Ereshkigal's spear, held ready.

Steel burst through Aglæca's chest in a shower of black blood and splintered bones. Mouth agape, she stared at them in stunned disbelief. Shuddered and jerked on the wide metal shaft, gauntlets instinctively and futilely reaching to grab it. Beowulf recognized the gesture from another impalement, another world away, and winced in unexpected sympathy.

Her death rattle echoed in the cavern, blood gushing from her mouth. The body shivered once more, then went limp. Silence reigned for a long moment, save for distant tremors and the slick of pooling blood.

A glance passed between Beowulf and Ereshkigal. At her nod, he rolled his shoulders before gingerly pulling the giantess' body from Meslamtaea. He carefully laid her down on the ruined ground, then stepped back so Ereshkigal could perform her rites.

Only to have her arms lock around his neck instead. Blonde hair flew into his face as she pulled him down into a welcome, if crushing, embrace.

"Eresh—"

"Not a word," she murmured into the crook of his neck. "I… I… just let me have this."

"Yeah." Pulling off her ruined cloak, he wrapped her up in his arms and buried his nose in her hair. Just breathed in the scent of her, one he thought he'd lost forever. "As long as you need."

_(as long as we both need)_

He wasn't sure how long they stood in the darkness, holding each other. Time seemed to have lost all meaning with Eresh pressed up against him. Even in the place of his nightmares, soaked in blood and surrounded by the stench of fallen foes, he never wanted it to end.

Eventually she stirred and nudged him. More forcefully when he refused to let her go.

"Beowulf. We aren't done here yet."

The Berserker heaved a sigh. "Do you always gotta be so responsible?" he grumbled, holding on a shade longer before finally opening his arms. "You're right, though."

"As always," she said with a small smile. "I am a very reliable goddess, after all."

All mirth dried up as Beowulf stood to one side, giving her room to kneel by Aglæca's body. Carefully, Eresh brushed the eyelids closed.

"Life was unfair to you and your son," she murmured. "The Age of Men had no room for your kin, or the old ways. You both tainted your hands with blood, and so cannot blame the men for defending themselves. But the suffering you carried for your hatred…" Ereshkigal's sigh echoed in the gloom. "It was a price you should never have had to pay."

Beowulf wasn't sure about that. The image of Gunnhilde's face, wan from weeping, flashed before his eyes. But for Eresh's sake, he only grit his teeth and waited.

"Rest now," she said, and trickled earth on the giantess' breast. "I will not cage your soul, for that would bring you more pain than comfort. But I promise that nobody will desecrate your body, or disturb your slumber as you fade."

A few more heartbeats passed before Eresh straightened up, which Beowulf took as his signal to collapse. Even the blessing of the underworld could only do so much to heal a man on the brink of death.

Slender but strong arms caught him, as he knew they would. He lifted his head and grinned as Eresh's expression warred between the brightest smile and the deepest scowl.

"I really should kill you myself, you know," she said, soft voice draining the harshness from her words. She pressed her forehead against his and drew a shuddering breath. "The way you made me worry, Beowulf."

A few drops of warm liquid fell on his cheeks, and he realized with a start that she was crying. And he really was an asshole, because the ache in his chest at the sight felt a little bit sweet. His own eyes stung, bringing a rueful smile to his lips. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd cried.

"Sorry. I didn't want to be the one worrying about you," he rasped, gently thumbing the tears away so he could see the brightness of her eyes. "Then you came down here on your own anyway. So much for that, huh?"

She sniffled, a most unladylike sound from a queen usually so worried about dignity. "Idiot. Next time, reach out your hand in the first place. So instead of making me follow you into the dark, we walk through it together."

His bark of laughter snapped her head up. "... heh… now who's talking about next time? Glad I'm rubbing off on ya," he grinned, hoping to lift her mood.

"I should drop you right now," sighed Ereshkigal. The tears had stopped now, though her eyes were still a little red for his liking.

That faded away when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. Her embrace ghosted cold over his skin. It was the most soothing sensation he'd ever felt.

"But in the state you're in, you might shatter to dust. So I'll save it for our next spar."

Beowulf knew the stupid grin was back on his face, and revelled in it. "Can't argue with the decree of a goddess."

He scratched his chin as he looked around the ruined cavern.

"Don't know how you got here, but we're definitely not going back through that fucking lake. Good thing I've got another idea." He held a hand out to her. "Let's go."

"Not yet," said Ereshkigal, lightly slapping his shoulder. "You have a task to finish."

The Berserker stared in astonishment as one of the floating souls flared bright, then took the form of a shadowy shovel.

"Oh come on, Urtur," he groaned, but willingly took hold of the implement. He cocked an eyebrow at Eresh. "Bury her with all the respect due a fallen foe, yeah?"

Eresh beamed at him. "You _are_ teachable, after all." A small flush crept into her face in response to his flat look. "A-and I did say I would have you repent."

"This is solid rock, you know."

"I know you'll manage," she said cheerfully.

She really was lucky she was damned adorable. Beowulf wouldn't have hesitated to punch out any other death queen that spoke to him that way.

He ended up burying the giantess next to Grendel's body, even if the concentration of scaled bodies on the spot made his work that much harder. Only then did Eresh wrap her arms around his neck again and kiss him.

The blue flames of Kur's souls danced over their mistress' shoulders as she took her champion's hand. Together they left up the winding stairs that appeared hewn in the ancient rock, and stepped out into the first rays of morning.

* * *

Ereshkigal woke to warmth. Surrounding her, curved around her, cradling her close. A heartbeat not her own echoed in her ears, slow but steady. _Alive._

Blinking her eyes open, she found the side of her cheek pressed into the hard muscle of a familiar chest. She was inelegantly sprawled on top of Beowulf, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. His arms were wrapped around her waist to hold her close, his rough fingers curled under her dress to splay against the delicate skin at the small of her back. One of his legs was draped over her own, its powerful bulk pinning her in place.

Breath hitching, cheeks flaming, Ereshkigal glanced up at the sleeping man. Shaggy hair fell across a face she'd last seen bruised and broken, now miraculously made whole. His expression looked softer than she'd ever seen it, his brow relaxed and his mouth in a blissful smile. For a moment, she could glimpse the boy running along the shore with his friends, long before the warrior or the king.

A smile crossed her lips, even as tears welled in her eyes. She rubbed them away with the back of her hand and sighed. There was so much to do, so many pieces to square away before they could fully relax. She could expect hours being debriefed by Da Vinci and more. But all that, and the shuffling of feet and little mutters that her mind distantly caught and tossed aside, faded before the massive arms holding her.

_Maybe it was alright to… just relax, for once._ Indulge in Beowulf's radiant heat, suffusing her until cold was a distant memory. Savour this moment while they both could, before the world pulled them back into its unending whirlpool. After going to hell and back, they deserved a little time to rest.

Doubts banished for the moment, she closed her eyes and nuzzled into his chest. He was so warm, as warm as the chuckle drifting down to tickle her ears. Drowsily she looked up, and found red eyes gazing fondly down at her.

"There you are," he rumbled, pulling her a little closer. "I was starting to worry."

The flame in her cheeks intensified. Sputtering, she reached down to give his hand a little warning squeeze.

"D—don't you dare!" she huffed, trying to look stern even as his grin made her lips quirk. "Not after everything you put me through."

She frowned as his hands stroked soothingly through her hair. She was still angry with the Berserker, hot embers deep in the pit of her stomach. His _utter_ pigheaded foolishness—his refusal to trust her, after all his promises!—had torn Ereshkigal's heart and almost cost them both their lives. The iron queen wanted to rip into Beowulf, tear him so raw he'd never dream of doing such a thing again.

But he'd opened himself to her down in the dream realm, when it mattered most. Thrown the doors of his mind and soul wide open, and invited Ereshkigal in — all of her, monster and queen and girl— without hesitation.

_Just to save his skin_ , whispered the most spiteful part of her, the Ereshkigal that still shivered on her lonely throne.

The rest of her, the woman who loved the blemished image of a hero, knew that wasn't fair. Beowulf was a lousy actor, as he'd always protested. And the shining red of his eyes when he'd declared it aloud made it clear. He would say it anytime and anywhere, and give her the most insolent smirk while he did it.

Another shuffle from the side, a few coughs and whispers. Ereshkigal was too busy staring into the crimson of his eyes to pay them any mind.

"Yeah, my bad," said Beowulf after a moment, hands still tangled in her tresses. He straightened a little, pulling her up with him so they were half-lying and half-sitting. His head inclined in a slight bow. "Sorry about that. Should have told you everything after all."

"Yes, you should have! But…" she bit her lip, but forced herself onward. "I can understand… hiding the parts of yourself that you don't want to show. Because then they might walk away from you, and you couldn't bear it."

"Yeah. I thought you might," he rumbled, moving one hand to rub slow comforting circles along her shoulder. Gently, but enough to remind her that she wasn't alone.

Her tongue came undone under the tenderness of the gesture. "And…! I knew you were troubled, but I promised myself I wouldn't pry. I was afraid I might drive you away, even after everything you already accepted about me." More tears stung at the corner of her eyes. In front of anyone else, it would have been mortifying for a goddess to cry. In front of Beowulf, it was somehow alright. "I should have trusted you more, too."

"Hey," he said gently, then reached down to take her hand and pressed a kiss on the back of her knuckle. "We've already done something like this before, yeah? So let's just forgive each other and move on." He grinned at her. "I don't want to waste any more time."

"Good," she said, her mouth moving ahead of her mind in her affection for the impossible man. "Then to start with, you can lie back down and hold me." Then her words caught up and made her flush. "That—- if you insist, that is!"

"As the goddess commands," he laughed, and scooped her up so she was resting fully on his broad chest.

Sighing happily, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sighed into the crook of his neck. His natural scent of smoke and musk was far better than the blood and rot that clung to him underground. Although there was an odd floral component that she didn't recognize.

Come to think of it, that same smell permeated the room. Sweet meadow flowers, and the familiar perfume of pomegranate. She must have breathed it in all along, and only noticed now that she was focused on that sense.

_Oh no_. A small shiver ran up her spine. _Please, please don't tell me..._

"Not gonna complain," Beowulf grinned at her. "The rest of them can damn well wait."

"Them?" repeated Ereshkigal hollowly, although she already knew the shape of her doom.

Sitting up, she turned to find a small group of people gathered on the other side of Beowulf's quarters. Ritsuka awkwardly cleared her throat as she leaned back in the sole chair, a furious blush on her face. The command seals on her hand were visibly missing a sigil.

Mash stood at one shoulder, her cheeks equally pink, while Ishtar floated over the other, arms crossed and a storm on her brow. Suddenly the missing sigil made perfect sense.

The image was completed by Merlin, who had somehow arranged a seat for himself from the remains of a ruined punching bag. Delicate flowers bloomed at his feet as he beamed at them and clapped his hands.

"Hahaha, a wonderful tale! I'm so very glad to have witnessed it. But shouldn't it end with true love's kiss?"

Deep red consumed Erehskigal's face, from her neck to the very tips of her ears. Squeaking, she instinctively ducked her head down into Beowulf's shoulder before she could stop herself.

"Merlin…!" hissed Ritsuka. "This really isn't the time!"

With a deep breath, Ereshkigal straightened herself and tried to assume some semblance of composure. The dignity and elegance of a goddess-

"He's right," rumbled Beowulf, unabashedly throwing an arm around her shoulder to ruin that composure. "You guys mind? I don't think I'm getting that kiss until you all clear out."

The tender stroking of his fingers over Ereshkigal's neck spoke volumes on how much he wanted that kiss, and whatever else he could get. She felt a strong urge to flee and hide away in her room for the next few years. She stayed anyway, coaxed by the comforting warmth of Beowulf pressed against her, and the sweet ache of happiness in her chest.

Ritsuka's expression grew stern as she leaned forward. "Not a chance. After the heart attack you both gave me, I think you owe—"

The command seal must have expired with the magus' words, for Ishtar brashly moved directly in front of her to scowl down at Ereshkigal.

"Of all the _stupid_ , irresponsible..." Ishtar shouted, words tripping over themselves in her anger. "What the hell were you thinking, Ereshkigal? Going down into a dream realm like that, with only a sliver of your divinity…!" Her fists clenched at her side. "You could have _died!_ "

"A world class blunder," agreed Ereshkigal shakily, unconsciously reaching up to resettle her crown. "I suppose we really are sisters."

"That's not funny!" growled the other goddess. "Really, did you even think for a moment? After all those lectures you give me, the utter nerve…"

Her shoulders slumped for mere heartbeat before she whirled on Beowulf.

"And you! How dare you drag my sister into something so unforgivably gloomy?"

"Hey, I meant to keep her out of it," protested the Berserker. "She's the one that followed me down." Before Ereshkigal realized it, his hand had closed around hers to interlace their fingers. "I'm really grateful she did, though."

Ereshkigal coughed against the renewed flame in her cheeks, then locked eyes with her sibling. "That's enough, Ishtar. He's mine, and I don't let anyone take what's mine. No matter how far I have to go to grasp it." Then she let her stern expression soften into a smile. "That's the way of a goddess, isn't it?"

A complicated kaleidoscope of emotions rippled across Ishtar's face. After a moment, she blew out a sigh. "The underworld blooms at last, I see." She floated back, wearing her most aggravating smirk. "Fine, fine. Then tell my brother-in-law I expect nothing but the best at the wedding feast."

"Ishtar!" blurted Ereshkigal, her face so hot she was sure steam might shoot from her ears. Even Beowulf's ears were visibly heated as Ishtar glided out with a laugh.

"Thank you for the lovely treat," said Merlin, rising from his seat with his usual serene smile. "Hmm, but as it seems that things are about settled here, I think I'll head to the cafetera. I have an inkling that some fresh entertainment is brewing."

It was only after the white robe fluttered out the door that Ereshkigal remembered Merlin was an incubus. An incubus who had waxed about a _treat_ after she'd just woken up.

She might have chased him down if Ritsuka hadn't chosen that moment to drag her chair directly in front of the bed. The magus' stern expression belied the hands wringing themselves in her lap. Then she stiffened her shoulders and glared at them both.

"Okay, first off — _never do that again_. Either of you. "

Beowulf's mouth was halfway open when she jabbed an accusatory finger at him.

"If you're about to feed me nonsense about _weapons_ and _replaceable_ , then don't. Just don't." She reached up to massage her temples. "You're my friends, okay? And a lot more to each other, obviously."

Ereshkigal picked at the hem of her cloak, torn between bristling at the lecture ( _she was still a goddess!)_ and the little bit of extra warmth the words brought her. Silence seemed the wisest course, lest she say something she'd regret later.

The man at her side didn't share that wisdom. "We handled it, yeah?" he scowled. "Touch and go in a few places. But don't tell me you haven't done worse, _Master_."

"Not the point!" Ritsuka slammed her hands down on her thighs, before Mash's hand on her shoulder steadied her. She shot the Shielder a grateful smile, then turned back with a sigh. "Look… I have to lean on you guys all the time. Everyone that fights and bleeds and smiles for me."

"That is a part of our pact, Master," said Ereshkigal. "Each of us agreed to that when we stepped through the Third Gate."

"Yes, fine," grumbled Ritsuka. "I'm grateful, believe me. But… I'm always relying on you." She scratched the back of her neck. "So I kind of want you guys to rely on me, too. So you can enjoy the time you have here, even if it can't last. This time… it's the only reward I can offer any of you."

Even if Ereshkigal's feelings for her Master had shifted, that shy smile could still fell a mushushu at fifty feet. A small thrill of pride filled her as she slid to the edge of the bed. She hesitated only a moment before patting the magus' hand.

"Hush, Ritsuka. It's because of you that I set out on this journey at all. I've already forbidden you from disparaging yourself in my presence, haven't I?"

The magus looked like she was about to melt under the goddess' smile. Then Mash gave her another gentle nudge and her shoulders abruptly straightened.

"Ahem! Keep it in mind for next time, then. Also, you're both on punishment detail for the next two weeks." She preemptively raised a hand in Ereshkigal's direction. "Sorry Eresh. I know what you're going to say, but even a goddess has to repent sometimes."

Ereshkigal briefly thought it over, then smiled. "Of course, Master."

It was almost worth it simply for Ritsuka's open surprise.

"Then we shall upgrade the brewery as our penance," she continued. "I trust you have no objections."

The magus frowned. "Hey, that's hardly a p—"

"Senpai. Remember what we said about choosing your battles," said Mash.

As usual, Ritsuka was putty in her partner's hands. "Fine, I get it," she groaned as she slumped back in her seat, then cast a baleful eye on her two rogue Servants. "You both still have to report in to Nightingale, though. I don't think Dantès will be able to hold her back much longer."

Her scowl curved up into a smirk.

"Also, I want to be maid of honour."

Ereshkigal decided all of Chaldea was a conspiracy to see how much blood could rush to her face, especially when Mash meaningfully cleared her throat and Ritsuka crossed her arms.

"Really going to hold me to that…?" said the magus with an affectionate if exasperated roll of eyes. "Okay then—best man."

Beowulf's laugh rumbled through the room. "Sure. You can fight Cu for it."

"Haaah… guess it's back to training then." Ritsuka gave a rueful smile and rose from her seat. "Come on, Mash. Da Vinci's going to want a full report, but I think we can hold her off a little longer."

"Right, senpai!"

Magus and demi-servant left, finally leaving Ereshkigal alone with Beowulf. The whole scene had been aggravating, mortifying, entirely below her dignity.

And _warm_.

Beowulf gave her a tiny squeeze and drawled, "Still want to stay here? We've got a brewery to fix up, thanks to you."

"It can wait," said Ereshkigal, burying herself deeper in his arms.

* * *

**Epilogue**

The stream burbled and ebbed over the rocks in little cascades before coming to settle in a sunlit pond. Cardinal flowers and buttercups bloomed on the banks, the red and gold of summer.

Two ghosts made flesh wandered barefoot over the soft grass, admiring the blossoms. A single kingcup adorned the woman's blonde hair, placed there by the man. They walked slowly, as if they didn't have a care in the world.

A momentary sliver of time, a bubble in the river of fate. But for at least a little while, their time was their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you again to Exstarsis, for setting me on this journey, and to all the readers who came along for it. Hopefully the destination was worth it.
> 
> Please do not mention to the groaning wardrobe full of rarepair-hell concepts. If I just sip tea and pretend everything is normal, surely they'll all go away?

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a gift for my very good friend and inspiration, Exstarsis.
> 
> About a year ago, I wrote a story called "Mysterious Divine Wine" (which this story functions as a loose sequel to) about the difficult relationship between Ereshkigal and Ishtar after both come to Chaldea. I wanted to make clear that Ereshkigal has a cruel aspect under the warm goddess. That led to a draft scene where Beowulf provoked her, very much like what happens in this chapter. We ultimately removed it as not fitting in the overall mood of that story, but demon that she is, Tarsi asked me to ship the two characters.
> 
> Sure, a quick shipping fic. What's the harm, I said? 50K words later, I'm on the furthest shores of rarepair hell. *shakes fist* I hope you're happy, Tarsi!


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